


The Fall of John H. Watson

by VincentMeoblinn



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Amnesia, Anal, Angst, Coma, M/M, Manipulation, Masturbation, Memory Loss, Mutual Masturbation, Oral, Pining, Prison Gang, Prison Sex, Public Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rimming, prison rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 12:32:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 23
Words: 24,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1106860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Moriarty says he’ll burn the heart out of Sherlock, the detective expects a personal attack. What happens broadsides him and it takes years to correct the damage, but will John ever forgive him for doubting him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

 

 

Sherlock heard the screaming from the living room where he was having tea while discussing a potential case with Lestrade. They both bolted up the stairs where they found John Watson, naked and horrified, pointing at his bed.

“This is NOT OKAY Sherlock!!” John shouted in a full, red-faced rage.

Sherlock strode over to the bed and stared in surprise at the naked… and very dead… man in John’s bed.

“Body parts in the icebox I can understand,” John continued, wrapping a random article of clothing around his naked body, “body parts in the cabinets, microwave, and even the coffeemaker I’ve learned to tolerate, but where the _fucking hell_ do you get off putting one in my _bed?!_ Is this some sick joke?!”

“I didn’t,” Sherlock stated plainly, “He isn’t even one of mine.”

“So where did this dead guy come from?” John asked in alarm.

“A better question would be who murdered him,” Lestrade asked, looking at the wound to the man’s neck.

“An even better question is: why is a murdered man in John’s bed with signs of anal penetration and a very naked Doctor Watson nearby?” Sherlock added.

[CHAPTER TWO](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/13160.html)


	2. Chapter 2

All the evidence was stacked against him, and to head it off John had no memory of the night before. There was footage of them leaving a bar together, he had evidence on his person of having had sex with the murdered man, the murdered man had John’s semen inside of him, there were claw marks on John’s neck and chest that corresponded with his own skin cells beneath the dead bastards fingernails. Sherlock had been out the entire night and was therefore unable to give him an alibi. No toxins were found in John’s blood to prove he had been incapacitated or drugged in any way with the exception of a bit of liquor. By all accounts it looked as though John had brought a man from the bar back to Baker Street, forced himself on the man (the theory was it had started consensual and then the man changed his mind and John wouldn’t take no for an answer) and murdered him afterwards.

It didn’t help the fellow in John’s bed, Richard Brook, was a dead ringer for Sherlock. It didn’t help Sherlock wasn’t allowed to partake in the case because he lived with the accused. It didn’t help that even after his trial, when he’d been convicted and Sherlock was finally allowed to look the evidence over, that the man was as convinced of John’s guilt as the jury had been.

The media had a field day. They claimed John had been expecting Sherlock to get him out of trouble and misquoted his blog left and right, reading meaning into casual observances and adding malicious nuances to John’s comments. John had argued and pleaded and reasoned with anyone who would hear him, giving interview after interview in which he stated his innocents as clearly as he could. The media painted him to be a monster, a sexual sadist, and a manipulative liar who had tricked the (implied autistic) consulting detective into a friendship in order to go on a raping and murdering spree and get away with it.

Lestrade was the worst. Sherlock, at least, merely shrugged it off and visited John as though they were still friends. Lestrade, however, gave him a look from the front row of the courtroom that showed every level of betrayal that John could imagine. Then he turned his back and walked away seconds after the verdict was made.

John tried to be grateful for Sherlock’s continued presence in his life, but it was getting more and more difficult. The detective showed up at random intervals to visit with him, using his influence and fame to get his way with the prison guards, and sat himself down to regal John with stories of cases and various experiments. John, however, was sinking lower and lower into a cold and empty rage. He was considered a rapist: the scum of the prison community. He had been in prison for two weeks and had already had to fend off three sexual assault attempts, though the guards had intervened on one.

“Then I followed the footprints to the edge of the gate and found where the fight had occurred between the son and the ward’s lover… John? Are you listening?”

“No, are you?”

“You weren’t speaking,” Sherlock pointed out with a scowl.

“I’ve been for months now. All through my trial. All of your visits. Always I’ve been telling you I’m innocent.”

“You’re most persistent on the matter, yes, but _today_ you’ve been silent. Almost broodingly so.”

“I was nearly raped last night. It puts a damper on my mood.”

Sherlock scowled, “I’ll talk to the guards and see you aren’t harassed again.”

“You can’t fix this that way, Sherlock. I’m a target in here.”

“You might try growing your facial hair out. Statistically speaking you’re less likely to be seen as a sexual replacement for a woman that way. You won’t be entirely left alone but…”

“Get out.”

“Sorry?” Sherlock asked in surprise.

“Get out and don’t come back. I don’t want to see you here anymore. I don’t want to be reminded of everything I’m missing while you solve _other people’s_ cases and leave me here to rot. I don’t want to know that you’re just fine with me being the skull on your mantelpiece… relocated to a prison where you can conveniently search out fresh cases while pretending to enjoy my company.”

“John, I do enjoy your…”

“Fuck you. Fuck you, Sherlock Holmes, you heartless machine,” John stated, his words angry but his voice cold and soft. Sherlock looked shocked but made no protest, “Don’t come back. I don’t want visits or letters or your pathetic excuse for a friendship that takes and takes but never gives me anything back. I thought you were a saint, you know? I thought you were saving me, but you weren’t. I was just a piece of furniture in the flat that you could trample all over when the mood struck you. And me? I was just some silly fan of yours. I see that now. Well, that’s over with. You’re well and truly off your pedestal, Sherlock Holmes, and I hope you enjoy your fall off of it as much as I enjoyed my fall from a meaningful life.”

John stood, indicated to the guard he wanted back in his cell, and didn’t look back once as he was led away.


	3. vincentmeoblinn | The Fall of John H. Watson Ch 3

Sherlock left the prison with a deep-seated feeling of regret and guilt. It was not a feeling he was used to. Even knowing that people had died due to his neglect during a case had not disturbed him as this did. John’s eyes had held such depths of pain, such intense misery and betrayal. Sherlock felt their stare like a stab through his heart even blocks away from the prison. He’d had no idea.

It had all made such sense. John had turned out to be typical, like anyone else, and typical people committed crimes. Usually they were small, petty crimes like speeding or stealing a pack of gum, but sometimes they were terrifying acts of inhuman cruelty. Sherlock had happily embraced what he saw as normal, because the idea that John was a truly honest and stunningly kind person _who liked and respected him_ was frightening.

Sherlock went home and nearly collapsed with a devastating melancholy. He paced and threw himself down on the couch and tried to figure out what he had _missed_. How had he not noticed John was innocent? He had no doubts of Johns innocence now, despite a lack of any proof, simply because of that look on his face. It was beyond sentimental, but he embraced it with the warmth of a lover. Unfortunately, now it was too late because John was in prison- possibly being violated- and had lost all faith in his detective friend.

It took Sherlock down several pegs. He hadn’t just failed to solve a case, he’d failed John and, to a certain extent, he’d failed himself as well. He sat there, questioning himself for the first time in his life. Worse than his choices in Uni. Worse than his drug use. Worse than his treatment of John during their time together in Baker Street. Sherlock had failed the one person who had seen him for who he really was, who had seen past his odd behavior and cared about the man underneath.

Sherlock wept for the first time in well over a dozen years and then buried himself in his flat for several weeks, refusing to emerge for cases or Mycroft’s nagging. Mrs. Hudson kept at him for a time, despite his screaming and tossing her out on her ear, trying to make him eat and care for himself. Eventually even her saint-like patience ended and he woke up in a hospital where he was informed he’d collapsed from dehydration. Mycroft stepped in and moved Sherlock to his house despite his protests. Sherlock shut himself up in the guest room and went back to ignoring the world.

Until he received a call from a young man at the prison who insisted John had asked him to contact him.

[ CHAPTER FOUR ](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/13695.html)


	4. vincentmeoblinn | The Fall of John H. Watson Ch 4

_Dear Dr. Watson:_

_Bravo!_

_Love, Your Better,  
Moriarty_

Overall, John thought he was coping well. They’d put some poor scared kid in as his cellmate and the terrified seventeen year old had become John’s little chick. Everyone thought he was John’s bitch, which wasn’t true, and apparently that gave him some sort of ridiculous respect, but John was just keeping the other inmates off of the jittery kid.

The poor thing had gotten a bum rap, if his story was to be believed. He’d grown up with a girl three years younger than him next door. They’d had their baths together as babies and had the keys to each other’s doors for as long as they each could remember. Their parents never even noticed the two were dating, mainly because they had simply always spent every day together and there was no obvious change. Then the girl turned up pregnant. Since Josh was seventeen and Lily was fourteen, the parents had charged him with statutory rape. He had apparently been misrepresented in court since John could think of a dozen loopholes on his own without any legal training.

John fought with himself about it for a while and then decided to give the lad Sherlock’s number and address. A week went by and then Sherlock popped by for a visit, first with Josh and then with John. Josh left his meeting with Sherlock near tears… but with joy.

“He said he could help me! He’s getting me in touch with a friend of his who can get me a fresh trial.”

“That’s great, Josh, I hope it works out,” John smiled warmly. Josh grinned and shook his hand firmly before finding an inconspicuous place to stand while waiting for John.

John walked in to see Sherlock and leaned over him despite the guard’s angry shout.

“I’m glad you’re helping Josh. I want you to, but let’s get one thing straight: I’m not your friend. Don’t ask for me again.”

“John! Wait!” Sherlock stood up but wasn’t allowed to follow him.

John stormed out, collected Josh, and headed for the rec area outside. Josh usually spotted him while he lifted weights, trying to keep himself in shape to keep the perverts off of Josh and himself. John pumped out several sets, forcing his rage out with every breath. It had hurt to see Sherlock there. Hurt to see him helping someone else when he needed the help himself. He strove not to take his misery out on Josh; the kid didn’t deserve it. He had a baby on the way and needed out of here more than John did.

Word spread around the yard fast, and soon everyone was aware that John was still in contact with Sherlock Holmes. No one wanted to end up with a _longer_ sentence, so John was mostly left alone. He didn’t stop training himself, though. He worked out daily and practiced his boxing alone in his cell when it was too damp or cold to go outside for a jog.

His boxing skills had saved him the few times he was still attacked; and the irony that Sherlock’s lessons had paid off did not elude him. The only time he’d been dropped the bastard who had done it had been too injured to rape him afterwards. They’d both ended up spending time in the infirmary and had ignored each other the entire time. He never went after John again.

Eventually Josh was freed and John ended up with a new cellmate who avoided him like the plague. John was fine with that. Not long after that he ended up with another weaker inmate tailing him for protection. This one was less than innocent, but John didn’t see a reason why people should be abused during their punishment so he protected him anyway. Another and another joined that fellow, and eventually John had an entire little gang of wimps who kept close to each other when he wasn’t around and otherwise followed him around like a flock of baby ducklings. Everyone thought he was bedding them all, so they ended up being called Watson’s Wenches.

Watson’s Wenches paid him small tributes for his protection, though he never actively asked for anything. They gave him snacks, which John was very grateful for, as he had no one providing him with spending money to purchase some from the canteen. They were often on rotation as Sherlock got someone off their charge or the person’s stint ended. As new Wenches came in they usually assumed, as the other inmates did, that John expected sex. It was always an awkward situation when one of them nervously waited for him to violate them or awkwardly offered themselves up. John soothed and rejected them in turn. He didn’t want an awkward fumble in a corner with a man who felt pressured to give his body to John for protection.

Months turned into years and John didn’t hear of or see Sherlock for a lengthy period of time. Not until he was suddenly joined by a lawyer who smilingly told him he had a court date in a week and there was hope for release.

“How? Why? I got forty years to life.”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

[ CHAPTER FIVE ](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/13986.html)


	5. vincentmeoblinn | The Fall of John H. Watson Ch 5

Sherlock dove into John’s case. It became his obsession. He occasionally was pulled away from it by Lestrade to go over his cases, but Sherlock only advised on them now. He had no true interest and didn’t follow up or search out results. The only reason he even allowed the distraction was to keep from disappointing another person. He’d become hesitant, lacking in confidence, fumbling through his precious ‘work’ without the dedication or curiosity he’d had before.

Mycroft worried about him to the point of annoyance, had him tested for drugs weekly, and had a nanny assigned to make sure he ate at least once a day, bathed, and drank enough fluids. He tried to drag him out of the house on occasion, sometimes taking him for walks in parks just to get him out and about. It should have helped their relationship, Mycroft was certainly trying, but Sherlock was uninterested.

He went over the evidence again and again. He double and triple checked the results of every test. He searched for proof someone had switched results. He got Mycroft to pull strings and had Richard Brook exhumed so that he could re-autopsy the man. The facts were clear.

-32 year old Caucasian male with curly dark-brown hair, 130Ib, hazel eyes, 5’11” tall  
-Penetrated anally with unknown object resulting in tearing and significant blood loss  
-Semen identified as belonging to Dr. John H. Watson found in rectum  
-Stab to trachea by pocket knife resulting in collapsed windpipe and death by asphyxiation, victim was on back from time of stabbing until discovered by DI Lestrade and witness Sherlock Holmes in the company of Dr. John H. Watson  
-Pocket knife identified as belonging to Dr. John H. Watson with finger prints of same  
-skin of Dr. John H. Watson found beneath fingernails

-41 year old Caucasian male with straight, short blonde and gray hair, 162Ib, blue eyes, 5’6” tall  
-Feces and blood of Richard Brook found on penis  
-Found naked in room with victim, some blood on left (dominant) hand and wrist  
-defensive wounds on neck and shoulders appear to be delivered by fingernails  
-Blood alcohol level .101 one hour after body found

This last point was where Sherlock focused. If John’s blood alcohol level was .101 an hour after he was found, and he’d left the bar with the victim six hours previous, then the chances were his blood alcohol had been at dangerous levels when he’d encountered the victim. A blood alcohol level of .30 could result in unconsciousness, tremors, lowered body temperature, and _memory loss_. The question was: how drunk was he when he left the restaurant and did anyone force more drinks down his throat? If so, who? To what aim? Was the sex consensual? Sherlock could only think of three different ways to plant that much evidence on two men without having them actively engage in sex with each other.

Most importantly, who had killed Richard Brook?

XXXXXXXXXX

Months passed. Sherlock was distressed and disgusted with his entire life. He wanted to see John, to talk to him and let him know what was going on. To tell him he was trying. To just sit down and tell him what he’d eaten the other day. Anything. His longing for his absent friend was like a physical ache in his body.

Lestrade invited Sherlock along for a case and Sherlock had agreed to go along because it was a rape case between two men and he was looking for more information. It took place in a prison and they didn’t have the names of the victims until well after they’d seen them each. Sherlock had ridden the entire way to the prison and walked the halls to the infirmary with a sense of absolute dread that John was one of the victims, but the victim turned out to be a weasel faced man with a twitch in one eye. He angrily told them what had gone on. Apparently he shared a cell with his assailant. The case was open and shut with one exception: no semen.

“How did you hide it?” Sherlock demanded of the rapist.

“I’m innocent,” he snapped, “You can’t prove anything. He probably fucked himself with his own fist!”

Sherlock tried for an hour and got nowhere with him.

_I’m losing my touch. Actually, I’ve lost it,_ Sherlock thought, standing to leave.

Lestrade stopped him with a smirk and held up an evidence bag.

“What’s that?”

“A condom. Bugger used a condom and tied it off. He hid it inside his pillow, but I went digging when I saw a hole in the corner.”

“He tied it off? Why? It would have made more sense to flush the semen and hide the condom empty than keep a bag of spunk in his pillow!” Sherlock replied in disgust, “A few flushes would have eliminated the evidence, especially if he timed it for when the cleaners came through.”

“It was probably a habit,” Lestrade said with a shrug.

“A habit to hoard little bags of semen?” Sherlock asked, his distaste growing.

“No! To tie it off!” Lestrade laughed, “Lots of guys do it that way. Cuts down on the mess… not that you’d know.”

Sherlock’s mind was spinning. This changed everything. John had had a steady girlfriend when the event in question occurred. They’d been sexually active. If he’d done this method with his condoms then that added _three more_ possible solutions to his supposed crime!

“I need to question John’s girlfriend,” Sherlock announced happily, turning and heading for the door.

He was stopped dead in his tracks, but it wasn’t by Lestrade’s groan of frustration.

It was John.

John was standing in the doorway talking to one of the guards. He had changed. He’d taken Sherlock’s advice and grown a moustache and a well-trimmed beard. He was also quite muscular and stood with a solid, almost aggressive countenance. Gone were the fuzzy jumpers and the soothing smile. This man was used to getting his way and keeping it. He was standing down the guard demanding the release of the weasel-faced man into his care.

“He’s one of mine, you know he is. I’ll walk him back to his cell and you lot can go about your days,” John informed the man as though speaking to a subordinate in the army.

“It’s not procedure…”

“Procedure got him raped. He wasn’t supposed to be in a cell with a sex offender.”

“ _You’re_ a sex offender.”

“Who does your job better than you do. Hand. Him. Over.”

Sherlock slipped slightly behind one of the curtains and peered between two partitions. The guard waffled a moment and then his eyes slid to the side submissively. He nodded to his companion and they fetched ‘the weasel’.

“Here’s your wench back, Watson,” One of them sneered.

“Cheers,” John replied, taking the man by the arm and guiding him out the door.

Sherlock watched him disappear with an acute sense of loss. Lestrade was watching him quietly; pity in his eyes, but Sherlock didn’t have time for him. He had the case file at home (Mycroft’s home). He’d pull it up and get to work immediately.

XXXXXXXXX

Moriarty. How had he been so blind! The man had promised retribution and then vanished for three years? It made no sense! Of _course_ he had a hand in it! John’s framing had ‘Consulting Criminal’ written all over it! Now he had to _prove_ that John was innocent.

Finally he had fire in his veins again instead of smoke. He spent hours down at Scotland Yard making a nuisance of himself until people listened and outlined his theories. They all looked at him with pity or annoyance, but he was determined. It only required one or two people to believe and he could start an actual investigation. Lestrade was on board, of course. The man wanted Sherlock back to normal and he wanted John to be innocent; to not to have stared a murdering rapist in the eye and called him friend. Dimmock was next and Sherlock soon had his resources surrounding him again.

The key was a new date rape drug that had been circulating in the market of late. At first no one had known and there had been a string of despondent women who had been accused of lying about their assaults. The drug left the system, without a trace, in less than five hours depending on body weight and how much the person sweated. It was generally delivered in alcohol, but had also been found on crisps and pretzels. The men and women who it was administered to had no memory of having sex, but woke up in strange places having clearly been violated. Their blood tests turned up clean.

This was all shot to hell when a bartender saw a client get slipped a dose and called the police. The disoriented woman spent the night in a hospital and the usual blood tests showed the drug there that night and gone the next morning. It was all Sherlock needed to realize Moriarty had branched out, having taken advantage of Sherlock’s lethargy. Now they needed to catch him and end his organization to free John once and for all.

XXXXXXXXXX

The sting had been a shocking success. True, Moriarty had escaped, but they’d captured Moran and several other agents. They’d also secured an entire collection of electronic evidence. It would take _years_ to go through it all and collect each criminal in Moriarty’s web, but Sherlock was only interested in one tiny flash drive.

**Dr. John H. Watson**

Sherlock slipped it into a drive at the station and watched quietly as the horror unfolded before him.

There was John, weak and disoriented in his own room, his body aroused beyond his control. He was shoved down on a mattress by Sherlock’s own look-alike who dropped John’s keys on the bedside table. John thought it was Sherlock. The man was rough with John and scratched him up. John thought Sherlock was angry with him and pleaded for forgiveness for a crime he had no knowledge of. When the man pulled off John’s pants and violently impaled himself on John’s involuntarily erect penis, John began to beg for him to stop.

_“Not this way, Sherlock! Please! Not like this!”_

Sherlock wanted to look away, he wanted to plug his ears, but he owed it to John to find out every scrap of evidence he could. John was shouting that it _hurt_ , and it likely did with no lubrication and all those drugs and alcohol in his veins, and it went on for ages before John sobbed out an orgasm and lay curled up on his side. The man handed him his own pocketknife, then, taken from the drawer in John’s bedside table. John held it clumsily in numb fingers, dropping it twice. The man finally held his hand around John’s and plunged the knife into his own throat.

Richard Brook collapsed onto his side and then rolled onto his back. John rolled sideways off the bed and vomited on the floor, barely collecting a drop of blood on his skin despite the spray shooting up from the ‘victim’. The man lay on his back, choking and gasping until he drowned in his own blood. Sherlock stared at the man’s empty eyes for several minutes.

“ _Why, Sherlock? Why? Why?”_ John pleaded from the floor before finally passing out.

The recording continued to show his slumber for the night and then went on to them finding him the next morning and his arrest. Sherlock caught sight of something he hadn’t seen before due to his position in the room: the hope in his eyes as he glanced over his shoulder towards Sherlock just before being led out by Lestrade and Gregson.

“I’m so sorry, John,” Sherlock told the paused image, running a finger over John’s face.

“He’ll be out soon,” Lestrade told him from the doorway to the records room, “We can both tell him we’re sorry.”

“I should have seen, should have known,” Sherlock sighed, “If our situations had been reversed John never would have doubted me.”

“I dunno. He’s human too, you know.”

“He wouldn’t have. Not John. Not then. Now? Now he’d crucify me, and I’d deserve it.”

[ CHAPTER SIX ](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/14290.html)


	6. vincentmeoblinn | The Fall of John H. Watson Ch 6

Sherlock stood nervously by the exit to the courtroom. John was released from his sentencing, obviously, and his lawyer was planning on suing all and sundry for his wrongful imprisonment. That, thankfully, did not include Sherlock and Lestrade since they weren’t a part of the original investigation due to having been a friend; Gregson had been the arresting officer and would be dragged through the mud for this.

Reporters surrounded John the minute he left the courtroom but his only statement was “It’s good to finally be vindicated.” Then he was swept up in the crowd, as he was loaded back into the police transport to be taken back to the prison and collect his things. Sherlock rode behind in a cab, sour that he hadn’t had a chance to speak to the man yet.

When John did emerge from the prison, he was wearing a pair of jeans and an undershirt, and carrying two blue plastic bags full of his possessions. One bag contained his jumper and probably his cell phone. The other bag apparently contained a mess of letters and pictures. Odd. John wasn’t usually so sentimental. He also usually chose to cover up more, but Sherlock assumed that he didn’t put his jumper on because it was so dreadfully hot out. As it was the clothing didn’t hang off of him properly anymore. John’s legs had dropped the fat he’d built up after leaving the military, his arms were muscled and his chest and stomach- clearly seen through the vest he was wearing- were quite ripped. His arse filled out the pants in a rather appealing way, but that was likely due to the amount of sitting he’d had to do in prison.

“I should have brought you some of your clothes from the flat,” Sherlock stated cheerfully as John stopped in front of him, “I haven’t touched your things aside to search for evidence. Mrs. Hudson was kind enough to leave well enough alone, though I think she dusted. Mycroft’s been paying both our rent; I’ve barely worked on anything besides your case the last three years.”

“I suppose I have you to thank for my release, then.”

Sherlock smiled warmly and waited for John’s praise, volley of questions, and general enthusiasm. It didn’t come. He stared up at Sherlock with a blank mask in place that would put the detective himself to shame. Sherlock’s smile slid off his face. John hadn’t forgiven him. Well… here was not the place for apologies.

“We can share a cab back to Baker Street, it’s waiting just outside. I’ll pay, of course.”

John hedged around him and marched out the door. He paused just outside the prison gates, standing in front of the cab, and simply looked around himself- but not back. Sherlock opened the cab door and waited wordlessly for John to drink in his first taste of freedom and then shut it behind him when he slid in without a sound. He joined him, smiling as he realized how _normal_ it felt to be seated in a cab with John.

“221 Baker Street,” Sherlock announced cheerily, and the cab pulled off.

“Lestrade wants to apologize, you know. He thought I was mad trying to prove your innocence all these years. I had this theory going about your last girlfriend for a while… ahh, you might not want to contact her. She seemed a bit… pissed off that I thought she had framed you.”

John stared out the window soundlessly and Sherlock’s enthusiasm for talk fizzled out. He watched John silently for the remainder of the drive.

John hurried out of the cab the moment it stopped, but stalled in front of the doorway. Sherlock paid the fee and hurried to open the door for him again, but when he looked back John had a look of what appeared to be panic on his face as he stared at the interior of the entry way.

_Is he remembering his rape?_

“John, if you’d like me to…” Sherlock was going to offer to change the way the flat looked in some way, but John suddenly stepped forward and shoved both bags of odds and ends into Sherlock’s hands and took off at a fast walk down the pavement.

Sherlock hesitated a moment, then stuffed the bags into a corner of the entryway and took off after John. He was almost fleeing in the direction of Outer Circle and Sherlock recalled he liked to stand on the bridge on the opposite side or walk in the wooded area this side of the college. Sherlock followed him at a brisk pace and wasn’t disappointed to find his recollections correct when John found a secluded bench and collapsed into it, his head in his hands. Sherlock sat beside him and looked around them. They were utterly alone and this was as good a time as any.

“I owe you a grave apology,” Sherlock began.

[ CHAPTER SEVEN ](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/14435.html)


	7. vincentmeoblinn | The Fall of John H. Watson Ch 7

John had never been claustrophobic before, but looking up at 221B’s entrance he suddenly felt the oppression of the dark wallpaper and tall walls bearing down on him from within. He stuffed his things into Sherlock’s hands, not caring if the man read the letters from his former ‘Wenches’ and fled towards his favorite bench in the nearby park. Sherlock followed, of course, the tosser. Why couldn’t he just leave John alone?

John fell into the bench, taking in deep breaths of air through his nose and trying to stem off an anxiety attack.

_I won’t be there long anyway. I’ll get a job and find a different flat. Maybe leave London. It’s past time for that. My heart isn’t here anymore._

“I owe you a grave apology,” Sherlock’s deep baritone reached him.

John looked up in surprise. He hadn’t felt the man sit beside him.

“The evidence was stacked against you,” Sherlock continued, his eyes on his shoes, “But I should have believed you anyway. You’re my friend and I owed you that for all you’ve given me.”

John was silent. Shocked. Sherlock Holmes apologizing? He glanced up to check for flying pigs and then down to see if the ground had opened up to reveal a snowy Hades. Sherlock was oblivious to his confusion; the man was entirely focused on getting out a clearly rehearsed speech.

“I was so alone, John, and you gave me so much. I took it for granted and for that I’m also sorry. I hope you can forgive me. I’d like things to be back the way they were. I’d like to be friends again. I can promise you I won’t treat you as callously this time. These past three years have… changed me. I can tell they’ve changed you, too. I’d like to think we’re still compatible, though.”

Compatible? As what? Detective and blogger? Super Hero and side kick? John licked his lips as he stared blankly at Sherlock, trying to think what to do, and Sherlock unconsciously mirrored his movement. John was on him instantly, capturing those full lips in a needy kiss. It had been years since he’d kissed anyone. Years since he’d felt any kind of affectionate touch. He knew that was his own fault, of course, many of his ‘Wenches’ would have happily slaked more than his desire for sex, but he hadn’t _wanted_ any of them. Not like this. Not like this burning ache inside of him for the man beside him.

Sherlock was still at first, then slowly began to kiss him back and snaked a hand around his waist. John responded with a heated moan and palmed the man’s groin, glad to feel him already hard and eager. He tugged his own tight jeans open and shoved Sherlock’s hand unceremoniously into them. The man faltered a moment, trying to pull away from the kiss, but John tugged him back insistently. Sherlock’s hand tightened around his hardening member and John moaned hungrily into his mouth. Sherlock made a sound somewhere between a moan and a purr and John was instantly rock hard and leaking. They snogged like greedy teenagers, John stroking the front of Sherlock’s trousers while Sherlock tossed him off inside his pants with firm, efficient strokes.

_This_ was what he needed. The man he’d admired for so long wrapped in an intimate embrace, touching him in ways he’d never even imagined before. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective and Grade-A Wanker, wanking him off. How long had he obsessed over the man? Eighteen months sounded short, but it had been the most intense he’d ever felt for anyone; follow that up with three years of bitter anger and hate and John was a bomb ready to go off.

John gave Sherlock’s lip a nip and then started kissing and sucking on his neck. The sensation was evidently too much for the man as he gasped, bucked, and grunted as he came in his pants. John stroked him a second longer and then leaned back to watch Sherlock’s continued efforts. He was pumping him through the slit in his boxers, his shaft occasionally visible as the man’s hand stroked downward. A moment later John groaned out his own release, too thrilled with the best orgasm he’d had in years to complain about the mess in his pants.

Sherlock’s hand retreated and he wiped it on the grass beside the bench while John did his saturated trousers back up.

“That was… good that… what we did there was… good,” Sherlock stammered, looking flushed and a bit embarrassed, “I suppose I should warn you not to go out alone.”

John stood and gave Sherlock a scowl, not understanding his warning.

“Moriarty,” Sherlock explained, “He escaped the last several raids. He’s weakened, but not out of the game. He’s like an injured animal now, and he’s bound to lash out.He knows you’re a weakness of mine; hell losing you all but ended my career as a Consulting Detective for three years straight. It’s safe to assume he’s watching us and… well, I suppose if he’s just seen _that_ there’s no question that you’re still important to me. He’ll come after you.”

“I can take care of myself,” John stated firmly, then turned and walked away.

[ CHAPTER EIGHT ](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/14607.html)


	8. vincentmeoblinn | The Fall of John H. Watson Ch 8

Sherlock had thought things were fixed. He’d thought that he and John had entered a new level in their relationship. As such, when John remained silent and distant the next few days Sherlock made an effort to give him space, something he likely needed after the ordeal he’d been through. However, when the man consistently did _not_ make Sherlock’s morning and afternoon tea, when he cooked up a meal but did _not_ bring it to him or pester him to eat, Sherlock had to acknowledge that the man was ignoring him.

So he started to search for reasons why. He had apologized and John was the sort who accepted apologies. John was _not_ the sort who had one-offs, especially not with flatmates. So there had to be a reason why John was distant and cold with him. Sherlock started with the bag of letters that John kept in his room. He read each and every one while John was out job hunting. Most of them were signed in a peculiar way: So and So of Watson’s Wenches. Two of them were from Harry.

That last bit infuriated Sherlock. Harry was John’s _sister_. She should have written him more than twice in three years! Sherlock snatched up John’s laptop and logged on to his e-mail. Once he’d located Harry’s e-mail address he sent her a scathing message and signed it with his name. Then he went through the rest of John’s e-mails and found nearly all the people he’d been getting letters from in prison had already communicated with him via e-mail. Most of it was congratulations on his freedom and requests to drop by. John had responded to the requests for visits with a negative, explaining he wanted to get his own place first.

_Why? There’s no reason to move! I can change the place to ward off bad memories. That will do the trick. He was fine until he set foot in 221B._

Sherlock shut the laptop and stormed downstairs, banging on Mrs. Hudson’s door.

“What is it dearie?” Mrs. Hudson chirped happily. She’d been much happier since John had returned.

“John is unhappy with the décor. You told me to tell you before renovating anything. I’m going to tear down the wallpaper and paint everything. There. You’ve been told.”

Sherlock turned on his heals and headed upstairs. He texted John on his way.

**What color do you want the flat painted? – SH**

He’d still not received an answer back by the time he’d finished pulling all the wallpaper down so he went out and bought white paint. John returned to find all the furniture moved into the center of the room as Sherlock painted the flat white. He was wearing an old pair of John’s clothes, but John never minded those sorts of things. The man gave him a blank stare, glanced at the white walls, and then went upstairs. He came back down with his laptop right as Sherlock was taking a break with a glass of ice water. John placed the laptop in Sherlock’s lap and headed into the kitchen to rattle around for some food.

It was a reply from Harry. Since Sherlock had sent the e-mail from John’s address she had replied back to the same and John had gotten it.

_Dear Detective Dick:_

_As opposed to all 0 of the letters you wrote him? My brother and I may not be bosom buddies, but at least he’s still talking to me. Of course, I never doubted him for a second unlike one self-proclaimed so-called genius._

_Fuck You,  
Harry Watson_

Sherlock felt like curling up and sulking, but he didn’t want John to see him feeling sorry for himself when the man was so clearly still suffering from his ordeal. Instead he closed the laptop and headed into the kitchen.

“Did you get the job?” Sherlock asked, but John only nodded, “Where at?”

John ignored him.

“John,” Sherlock sighed, “I want to make this right between us, but you know my track record with people. Can’t you just tell me what to do or say and I’ll follow your instructions exactly? I’m fixing the flat. It won’t remind you of Richard Brook anymore.”

John put down the knife he’d been using to make his sandwich and gave Sherlock a withering glare. Then he took a big bite of his food and stomped back up to his room with it. Sherlock gave up on re-painting and John moved all the furniture back the next day.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

John hated the job at the Tesco, but it was a shade better than unemployed and hanging around Sherlock. It also meant money and money meant even more freedom. When he got his first paycheck he immediately bought three outfits, an updated oyster card, and put what little was left in an account. He wanted to go out drinking, but at the same time he didn’t want any trouble from Moriarty. The sooner he was out of Sherlock’s life the sooner he wouldn’t have to worry about the Consulting Criminal.

John headed upstairs with his new purchases and heard a voice in the sitting room. Curious, he opened the door and saw Lestrade sitting there with Sherlock. The man stood, a nervous grin on his face, and headed John’s way.

“John. You look great, mate! I wanted to come by sooner, but Sherlock said you weren’t up for visitors. I can’t apologize enough, John. I really can’t,” Lestrade stepped forward and held out a hand, expecting John to put his parcels down and greet him properly. His expectations were not met.

“No, you really can’t apologize enough. Thank you for working on getting me released, though,” John replied, then turned and headed back to his room, ignoring the calls from below.

Once there, John decided going out _was_ in order. He didn’t have to buy much, he could just get a decaf coffee and mingle; maybe he’d even pull a woman and get himself _properly_ laid. So John changed into his new clothes and headed downstairs. He’d shaved already that morning, but he wanted to refresh it a bit before heading out.

“Oh, are you going out?” Sherlock asked, standing up from where he’d been seated with Lestrade, “If you stay we can start on a case Lestrade has. You must miss that.”

John headed into the bathroom, shaved, and emerged to find Sherlock still hovering around annoyingly.

“Or we could go out together,” Sherlock grinned, “I’ll just change my shirt and…”

John shut the door in his face and headed down the stairs with a cheerful skip in his step.

Three hours later he returned home with a decided limp. He’d spent half the night achingly hard with no results to show for it. No one was interested in going home with him, though many hit on him because of who he was or whom he lived with. There was no follow through, and John stomped up the stairs in a temper to find Sherlock still fluttering about.

XXXXXXXXXX

John had returned looking surly and Sherlock was now convinced he knew why. John had changed in prison. He’d become a gang leader and had a group of ‘Wenches’, for lack of a more polite word, and had become accustomed to them. If Sherlock wanted into John’s new life then he was going to have to appeal to that side of him. Sherlock couldn’t tug John around anymore and John likely resented the fact he thought he could. The solution was to become one of his Wenches himself.

“John, are you intoxicated?” Sherlock asked when he saw the man enter the room.

John gave him an eye roll and a sigh and headed upstairs.

“I only ask to determine your level of decision making ability.”

No answer.

“I’d like to kiss you, John. May I?”

John paused with his hand on his doorknob, turned, and gave Sherlock a raised eyebrow. Sherlock took that as a yes and hurried up the stairs. He stopped a stair below John, smiled at the correction in their heights, and pressed himself wantonly against the doctor. John’s hand fumbled with the knob behind him and they stepped into the room together.

[ CHAPTER NINE ](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/14964.html)


	9. vincentmeoblinn | The Fall of John H. Watson Ch 9

They were on each other like animals, tugging at clothes and hair indiscriminately. John was more vocal than Sherlock had heard in weeks, moaning and grunting with every touch. Sherlock devoured it, dropping to his knees to swallow John’s cock down as well and sucking him with enthusiasm. John enjoyed that a moment and then pulled him off and pushed him towards the bed.

“I want you to do something crazy,” John growled, “Will you do it?”

“Anything,” Sherlock panted.

“I want you to rim me.”

“Never heard of it.”

“I want you to lick my arsehole until I come.”

John’s mind was replaying their semi-regular sexcapades in prison. They had a guard with a voyeurism fetish who would make sure they had a bit of time to go at it… preferably right after showers. Watsons’ Wenches weren’t the only prison gang on his books, but they were top on the list since everything was consensual between them. Honda and Jacob had been everyone’s favorites. Honda had an oral fixation and lived to lick and suck on Jacob in any and every way. John had watched- admittedly first in disgust but soon in growing wonder- as Honda rimmed Jacob until the man came, gripping his exploding cock with his eyes rolled back in his head in pleasure.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock looked at John in disgust, but the look of earnest anticipation and desire, not to mention the smile he hadn’t seen in three years, won him over. He gave John a nervous nod and watched the man stretch himself out on the bed with an eager grin. John propped his legs up and Sherlock spread his cheeks with a nervous glance down. John was smooth, shaven, and appeared clean, a nervous sniff revealed he smelled the same- and resulted in a chuckle from the doctor.

Sherlock steeled himself and ran his tongue around the farthest point of the man’s cheeks; the resulting moan from John was almost as surprising as the tastes. John tasted like sweat- salty and musky- without the foulness Sherlock had expected. The man had clearly shaved and cleaned in preparation of this very experience, and his bad luck at the pub had given Sherlock the chance to give it to him. That realization gave Sherlock the desire he needed to dive in with enthusiasm and John was soon gasping and pressing back against Sherlock’s mouth.

“Oh gods!” John moaned, squirming in pleasure, “I’m so close!”

Sherlock reached up and grasped the man’s twitching cock and a few strokes had him painting his stomach with white stripes. John grunted out his pleasure and Sherlock moaned against his twitching hole as he realized just how much he’d excited his flatmate. Sherlock lifted his head, nervously grabbing some tissues from the bedside and wiping off his face while John lay boneless on the bed.

“Oh, that was so much better than I thought it could be,” John panted.

Sherlock smirked, proud of himself and hopeful John was ready to move past his childish silence. His request to do so was halted by the man’s mouth hungrily colliding with his own and Sherlock found himself tugged down across John’s body and then rolled over.

“So what is it you want, eh?” John whispered, mouth moving down Sherlock’s neck and across his chest, “What does the great Consulting Detective want me to do to him?”

Sherlock moaned, his cock twitching in anticipation as John worked his way down the speechless man’s body.

“I guess now I know how to shut you up,” John growled, flicking a nipple with his tongue and then giving it a sharp nip.

Sherlock yelped but the bite was soothed quickly with John’s tongue and he was once again a moaning, helpless mess of desire. John slid down to where Sherlock’s cock was leaking precome onto his belly and gazed up at him.

“You tested recently?”

“Y-yes. Fuck, I suppose I should’ve asked you that,” Sherlock stammered, his face flushed with surprise at his unusual failing.

John chuckled and then lapped up Sherlock’s sticky belly moving down to his hips and teasing them with his tongue and teeth. Sherlock was panting and whimpering, squirming beneath John’s firm hands. It wasn’t until Sherlock began to beg that John swallowed his cock down and sucked him ardently. Sherlock lost his ability to breathe for a moment, gulped air in again, lost control of his hands and pulled John’s hair violently as he attempted to mindlessly fuck his face, moaned as John gripped his wrists and effortlessly restrained them, and then came with a shocked cry as his orgasm tore through him with the force of a tsunami.

John popped of Sherlock’s cock and smirked at him. He crawled up his body and pressed their mouths together once again. Sherlock sighed happily at the taste of himself on John’s mouth, amazed that they had been so utterly intimate together. His body was becoming heavy and his eyes were fluttering shut as John stretched out beside him on the bed. The man ran a hand through his curls and Sherlock moaned and turned towards him, intending on wrapping his arms around his dear doctor and falling asleep with the man in his arms.

John pulled away.

“Out. Now.”

Sherlock blinked a moment, confused and startled, before sitting up and staring down at the cold visage of After-Prison-John once more.

“But… I… I’m…”

John raised an eyebrow and Sherlock got awkwardly to his feet.

“I thought this would make things better,” Sherlock pleaded uselessly, “Isn’t this what you wanted? A wench?”

“A wench? You mean one of Watson’s Wenches?”

“Yes.”

“If I’d wanted one of them I could have had them twice over. I wanted _you_ , you great bastard, but you were too busy to notice and I was too awed by you to speak up. Hell, I was too afraid to even admit it to myself.”

“We have another chance,” Sherlock insisted, sitting back down on the edge of the bed and ignoring the way John shifted away from him, “Let me in, John. I want to learn how. You made all of them better people, make me over as well.”

“I don’t want a Wench.”

“I don’t much want to be, either, but I’ll take that over being the flatmate you ignore day in and out. Can’t you believe I’ve _changed_?”

“Yes. I can. You’ve no idea how much that terrifies me.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked in frustration.

“Because I haven’t. You think I have, but I haven’t, Sherlock. I’m still lonely and sarcastic and I can still joke.”

“Then why are you so _cold_?”

“Because it keeps me safe and I don’t have another heart to break.”

“I’ll never doubt you again.”

John closed his eyes a moment, his face twisted in pain, “Out.”

Sherlock stood and slowly gathered his clothes and walked to the door. He paused at the entrance but John was on his back staring up at the ceiling with his face once more resembling chiseled stone. Sherlock slipped downstairs and sat on the edge of his bed for hours trying to figure out what he could have said or done to remain in that room with John.

He had no answers.

[ CHAPTER TEN ](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/15301.html)


	10. vincentmeoblinn | The Fall of John H. Watson Ch 10

Sherlock woke the next morning to the most beautiful sound he’d heard in three years. John was laughing.

Sherlock staggered out of bed and stumbled into the living room with just a sheet around himself. There he blearily blinked at the sight of John sitting down to afternoon (how had that happened?) tea with a young man and his daughter. Another few blinks let him realize it was Josh from the prison. He had a tattoo on his arm that hadn’t been present before. It was a large camouflaged heart and had “Watson’s” across the top and “Wenches” across the bottom.

“Hello,” Josh stated, looking alarmed at Sherlock’s lack of dress.

“Afternoon,” Sherlock replied, “This is your daughter, I assume?”

“Ah, yes. Yes! Oh, Mr. Holmes, I was hoping you’d be here today. My daughter, Maggie… Maggie say hello to the man who got your daddy out of prison!”

Maggie ducked behind Josh and then darted over to throw herself into John’s arms. John let out a loud ‘oomf!’ and then laughed again. Sherlock smiled despite himself.

“Why don’t you go and get dressed, eh?” John suggested, his smile dropping as he almost looked in Sherlock’s direction, “We’ve got a lady present.”

“Yes. Of course. Please excuse me,” Sherlock found himself uttering, then hurried away to don an outfit. When he returned they were discussing dinner.

“I wish I could stay, I really do, but I have to get her home in time for bed. A rain check, yeah? Then my treat for both of you!” Josh gave John a warm hug and shook Sherlock’s hand before hurrying out of the flat.

Sherlock and John were left standing awkwardly on either side of the gigantic elephant in the room.

“So,” Sherlock stated calmly, “Was he the one introduced you to rimming?”

“No. Contrary to whatever you’ve ‘deduced’ I never slept with my Wenches.”

“But some of them _did_ introduce you to rimming.”

“Yes, they did,” John sighed, “What’s it to you?”

“Just trying to get to know you again.”

“You have something to say about how I spent my time in prison?” John asked coldly.

“No. I’m sure I’d have spent it with either bruised fists or on my face with my arse in the air.”

John winced, “Which was sort of the point of Watson’s Wenches. I suppose I should thank you for my boxing skills. They kept me alive and moderately unmolested.”

“Good,” Sherlock nodded.

Awkward silence.

Awkward silence.

Awkward silence.

“Does this mean you’re done ignoring me like a petulant toddler?” Sherlock inquired curiously.

John was on his feet in an instant and Sherlock opened his mouth to take the words back but the angry doctor had crossed the floor and shoved him angrily.

“How the _fuck_ am I supposed to react?! You pick me up at prison and just assume all is well because you righted the mistake you made three years earlier? I _died_ inside that day!”

“So did I!” Sherlock shouted back, shoving him as well.

John squared off, clearly ready to spend some time pounding Sherlock into the ground, but he put up his hands and backed off.

“I don’t want to fight with you, John,” Sherlock pleaded, “I want things right between us.”

“Not gonna happen.”

“It has to.”

“It really doesn’t,” He replied, but lowered his fists and sat back down on the couch.

“Let’s try something I looked up on the internet last night,” Sherlock suggested.

“Is that where my laptop went again?”

“They’re called ‘Trust Exercises’,” Sherlock continued, ignoring the jab.

John laughed, “What, like I fall backwards and you catch me and that’s supposed to restore my faith in you?”

“Exactly! You’ve heard of them before?” Sherlock wondered.

“Yeah. Yeah, I have. They’re a joke.”

“Jooohn!” Sherlock whined.

“Alright. Alright!” John stood and walked into the middle of the room with Sherlock.

Sherlock held out his arms and nodded for John to follow through. He man turned leaned back slightly, then pivoted around and nearly got Sherlock in the face with a hook kick.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

_Might as well get this over with. Sherlock may want to avoid it, but this isn’t ending without something a bit more physical than a good shag._

John leaned back a bit, then quickly shuffled his feet and threw a hook kick his way. Sherlock dodged it, as John had expected, but when he finished turning and got ready for an all out brawl the man gave him a look of abject horror. He had just begun to doubt himself when Sherlock pounced on him, knocking him backwards and onto the coffee table. They went down, two of the table legs giving out beneath them and sending them rolling onto the floor in a heap.

John grabbed Sherlock by his curls and snogged him hungrily, deciding if he wanted to fuck this out then he wasn’t opposed, but Sherlock wrenched free and pulled on John’s arms, his face still fixed in fear.

“RUN! RUN! NOW!”

Sherlock pulled John, still winded from the fall, towards the door. John was tugging back in confusion when he heard glass shatter and a loud THWAP! Plaster dust from the wall showered down on them.

_Sniper fire!_

John pushed Sherlock forward, avoiding the door that would not open in time to save their lives, and pushed Sherlock towards his bedroom. He was hoping the distance between the two windows would save them as they bolted down the hall, but he was too late. Sherlock paused to shove John in front of him before they reached the gap between the windows and took a bullet to the left side of his back, going down with a strangled cry. John cried out in alarm, grabbed the man by both arms, and dragged him speedily down the hall, trying to keep himself small as he did so.

John slammed the door shut and dragged Sherlock further away and down behind the foot of his bed. There he rolled the detective over and checked his wounds. Sherlock was unconscious, whether from pain or something more severe John had no idea, but it didn’t last long.

“You took a bullet for me,” John stated unnecessarily as he tugged Sherlock’s bedclothes down and used the sheet to slow the bleeding.

“Stubborn like that.”

John pulled out his mobile and called Lestrade.

“Sniper at Baker Street. Sherlock’s been shot.”

“John,” Sherlock wheezed, “Bit difficult to breathe.”

“That’s not the bandages,” John replied, “You’ve got a punctured lung. It’s collapsed on you. Do you still do drugs?”

“John, I swear I’m clean…”

“The syringes, Sherlock, where are they?”

Sherlock blinked in apparent confusion, then his eyes focused and he nodded towards his sock drawer: “False bottom.”

John tugged the drawer out and took a moment to close the curtains just in case their would-be assassin moved. A glimpse of movement in the window across the way told him he’d been smart and he ducked in time to avoid getting shot in the head. Luckily Sherlock wasn’t in that line of fire, but he moved him to a safer location anyway. Then he dumped Sherlock’s socks, tugged the bottom out of the drawer, and unwrapped a sterile needle.

“I’m going to pull some of the air out from around your lung. You might still not be able to breathe, but it should ease the pressure and possibly slow the bleeding that way.”

“John, I’m sorry.”

“Not now, Sherlock.”

“Moriarty framed you. Sniper shot at _you_. All because of _me_.”

“Breathe out,” John instructed. Sherlock obeyed and he siphoned off some air from his chest cavity, “Try breathing in.”

Sherlock attempted and the padding held. The lung probably wasn’t inflating completely- if at all- but it was enough that he was not turning blue.

“He said he’d burn the heart out of me and he knew where to look better than I did. Stupid. So stupid.”

“Don’t talk, just lay still. Let me help you.”

Six hours. Six hours as the police had a standoff with two snipers on either side of the building who kept taking shots at anyone trying to enter the flat. Six hours before an ambulance crew finally made it inside. Six hours of shock and bleeding and hypoxemia. Six hours that would kill a healthy man, let alone one with a history of drug use, poor eating and sleeping habits. Six hours and John was so stuck in war mode from shots coming in the windows around him that he tried to attack the ambulance crew. Six hours and he emerged from the flat as they dragged the snipers off in body bags. Six hours and he stood on the pavement and watched the ambulance containing Sherlock Holmes drive away without an ounce of hope in his heart.

It was sad how familiar that feeling was.

 

<http://www.nlm.nih.gov/medlineplus/ency/article/000087.htm>   


[ CHAPTER ELEVEN ](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/15448.html)

 


	11. vincentmeoblinn | The Fall of John H. Watson Ch 11

**Personal Blog of John H. Watson**

**August 23, 20- -**

**It’s been three long, miserable years since I wrote in this blog, and I wish I had something decent to say. I wish I could speak of a warm and heartfelt reunion with my dear friend and flatmate Sherlock Holmes. I wish I could say all was forgiven between us. I wish I could say I was a better person and hadn’t spent the last three years feeling a bitter hatred and sense of betrayal towards Sherlock and another friend.**

**Instead I’m logging on to admit that I was wrong and hope that the universe or god(s) or whatever stands in for them will give a fool another chance. Sherlock is in a coma after having taken a bullet meant for me from the same madman who framed me (well, I’m assuming it was one of his lackeys that did the actual firing). All I want now is to tell him I forgive him and ask him to forgive me. I don’t know or care if there will be anything after that. I just want him to open his eyes.**

**Sherlock. You told me once that you weren’t a hero. There were times I didn’t even think you were human, but let me tell you this: You were the best man and the most human… human being that I’ve ever known, and I should have forgiven you for being human and doubting me. Now, please, there’s just one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Wake up. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this.**

**(Read 4,356 Comments)**

XXXXXXXXXX

John finished his shift at Tesco and headed home for a shower. Once washed up he changed into comfortable clothes and headed for the hospital. This was his life now.

John sat by the side of Sherlock’s bed and wondered if this was it. Was this karma? Would he be like this for three years and then wake up in some cosmic retribution? Or was he going to watch his friend waste away until even the machines couldn’t keep him alive anymore like so many other faceless patients over the years?

Lestrade squeezed his shoulder and John sighed and reluctantly stood up. They headed for the door together, John having promised to get something to eat and the detective determined to see he did. He couldn’t help glancing back with the sudden thought that Sherlock was faking it, had fooled even the hospital staff, and would be peering up at him to see his reaction with that analytical mask in place.

He hadn’t moved.

The coffee shop across from the hospital had fantastic chocolate chip scones. John got them every time they came here along with the exact same tomato soup and bacon sandwich because he knew that those three dishes were going to be ruined for him forever. He drank water and stared at Lestrade while he talked about cases and work and his bitch of an ex-wife keeping the kids from seeing him regularly. He nodded when Lestrade said they should go out and try to pull women. He never went.

Back home John mostly ignored Mycroft when he came to check up on him every other day. He refused to move in with the bloke, despite the fact he insisted it was what Sherlock had done while he was in prison.

“It’s clear what you two mean to each other. I’ve no idea why you both fight it so much,” Mycroft huffed in indignation one day.

“I suppose we’re both idiots,” John shrugged, and offered the man another biscuit.

Mycroft waved it away, muttering about his weight, and scowled at John further.

“You need to survive this, John. My brother will- he always does- and when he does he will be very cross with me for not keeping you going.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying here and wait for him.”

“Very well.”

Another day at the Tesco and John was wondering if he was ready to search for a _real_ job, but wasn’t sure if he could make it through an interview without looking as though his best friend had just died. Instead he kept the routine up. Breakfast. Tesco. Shower. Hospital. Dinner. Mycroft. Bed. Repeat.

John showed up at the hospital with a Venus fly trap because he thought Sherlock would have appreciated studying it and there had been a fly buzzing about his room the day before. He set foot in the room to find it empty. A near run to the desk got him the information that Sherlock had been moved. They wouldn’t tell him why or what his status was but they gave him the room number.

John managed to crack the plants plastic pot in his grip on the elevator ride. He got out and headed down the hall to the specified room with his heart in his chest. It wasn’t the final care ward; he had that relief at least. A quick rap on the door and then John entered to find Sherlock blinking blearily up at him from his bed.

John’s hands shook as he put the plant down and then took Sherlock’s hand in his own.

“Oh, gods, I thought… have they told you anything?”

“Out a month,” Sherlock whispered, his voice ill-used, “I feel like I’ve been hit by a lorry.”

John laughed, but it was forced.

“A garbage lorry,” Sherlock amended, “Is that a Dionaea muscipula?”

“I thought it would amuse you.”

“While I was unconscious?” Sherlock snorted.

John chuckled as well, then took a chance of letting Sherlock’s hand go so that he could grab a chair and pull it over to sit beside his bed. When he sat back down he had a moment of panic as Sherlock’s eyes had closed again, but when he grasped his hand they opened once more.

“I feel like I’ve been hit by a lorry.”

“Yeah, a garbage lorry. You mentioned.”

“Is that a Dionaea muscipula?”

John’s smile slid off his face.

_Oh no._

“Yeah, I thought it would amuse you.”

“While I was unconscious?” Sherlock snorted.

“Have the doctors said anything?”

“No. No one’s been in to see me since I woke up.”

“They didn’t tell you you’d been asleep a month?”

“A month? Gods,” Sherlock closed his eyes a moment, “No wonder my mouth tastes like sandpaper.”

_Oh, gods, no. Not his mind. He’d be happier paralyzed._

“John?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you still angry with me?”

“No, Sherlock. Not anymore. I’m sorry I held a grudge so long. You didn’t deserve that.”

“I probably did,” Sherlock replied, shrugging and then wincing in pain, “I really wish a doctor would come in and give me something for this. Just because I’m a former user doesn’t mean I deserve to suffer.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” John promised, standing up and pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead.

He brought a doctor back, hoping he’d get more information that way. The doctor came in and inquired as to Sherlock’s pain levels, receiving a scathing reply that brought a smile to John’s face. Then he began explaining the situation.

“Mr. Holmes, you lost a significant amount of blood and were mildly oxygen deprived, a situation we call hypoxia, for an extended period of time. We are concerned that there may have been some brain damage associated with this situation.”

“That’s ridiculous, I feel perfectly fine,” Sherlock replied with a frown, “I remember everything I did before. My mind is a finely tuned instrument.”

“We’ve just had the same conversation twice, Sherlock,” John informed gently.

“That’s impossible,” Sherlock snapped irritably, “You’ve only just gotten here, how could we have had any conversation while the doctor’s been taking up all of your visiting time?”

John winced, “I’ve been here about half an hour, Sherlock. I brought the Venus flytrap. We discussed it. Twice.”

Sherlock blinked at him in confusion, glanced to the table and stared at it for a long moment.

“I… I don’t recall… Are you _sure?”_

“Yes, Sher, but it’s going to be okay. It might just be your short-term memory. What was the scientific name for the plant you used?”

“Dionaea muscipula.”

“There, see? Not so bad.”

“Not bad… not _bad_? What use am I without my memory?!” Sherlock looked fit to panic and John hurried forward to put a calming hand on his shoulder.

“It will be fine, Sherlock, I’ll help you through this,” John soothed.

“You haven’t even been speaking to me for a week!”

“We talked that out, it’s fine. It’s all fine.”

“It’s a bloody nightmare! Put me back in a coma! I can’t _live_ like this! I’d rather be a vegetable!”

Sherlock was attempting to scramble out of bed, the doctor was calling for a nurse, John was trying to keep the IV from being pulled out. The end result was Sherlock with his arms wrapped tightly around John’s shoulders, shaking as he sobbed onto his neck while John supported him round the waist.

“He may have pulled his stitches with that move,” the doctor informed the nurses as they rushed in to contain their patient.

“Just a moment, _just a godsdamned moment!_ ” John snapped as they tried to pry Sherlock off of him.

John lowered Sherlock back into a seated position on the bed, letting him rest his forehead against John’s chest. Sherlock clung to him while the nurses checked his IV and pumped a sedative into his veins. Just as it took effect Sherlock lifted his head and looked up at John.

“I’m sorry, John.”

“It’s okay, Sherlock. I’ve forgiven you. Do you forgive me?”

“Yes… why am I crying?”

“No reason, you’ve just had a hard day.”

“Right, of course.”

Sherlock put his head back against John’s chest and he carded his fingers through his curls until the man became drowsy enough to lie back down. Sherlock drifted between awake and asleep for a few minutes before slowly sliding into the land of Nod. John sat by his side for another hour, watching him breathe on his own and marveling at the fact Sherlock was doing that. It was miracle enough. It had to be.

He didn’t let himself cry until he was safely inside 221B once more.  
  


[ CHAPTER TWELVE ](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/15739.html)

 


	12. vincentmeoblinn | The Fall of John H. Watson Ch 12

“I have a routine? I’ve never had a routine in my life.”  
“Routines are important to you now.”  
“You say that as though you say it often.”  
“I do. Every day for the last 34 days.”  
As it did every day, comprehension dawned on Sherlock’s face and he looked up from his list. John braced himself. Sometimes he was angry, sometimes sad, and sometimes he simply accepted the situation and waited to see what would happen next.  
“First we practice memory exercises,” Sherlock stated, reading off the schedule with a nod.  
“Yes,” John nodded, he was glad Sherlock was in an accepting mood.  
“Is this a memory exercise?”  
“In a matter of speaking. Some days you remember me handing you this list at breakfast and some days you don’t. Eventually this will become long term memory and you won’t forget it at all.”  
“Are we sleeping together?”  
Well… that’s new.  
“No.”  
“I remember… I remember touching you.”  
John’s mouth went dry. There wasn’t a single night that he didn’t lie down in bed and remember that same thing. Sometimes it aroused him until it took every ounce of strength he had not to bolt downstairs and ravage Sherlock. Sometimes it settled in his chest like a fierce ache.  
XXXXXXXXXXXXX  
Personal Blog of John H. Watson  
Oct 20, 20- -  
Sherlock has good days and bad. Sometimes he is just like his old self. We get through his morning routine with him scoffing at me whenever I hold up a duplicate card and demanding we do something besides play ‘boring children’s games’. Then we go to the Yard and Lestrade hands us the same case file from yesterday and he recognizes it and tells him off.  
Then there are bad days; days when he wakes up before me and I find him pacing in the sitting room still trying to figure out a way to free me from prison. When he sees me it all comes rushing back and he’s so happy… until he realizes something is wrong with him. Those days are the worst because he seems almost fragile.  
This isn’t the man he was when I first met him in St Bart’s; the one who taunted me with information about myself, the one who seemed to see through everything and everyone. That man still exists, I know because I’ve seen him dissect a person’s past life as easily as a child rips wings from a butterfly. He’s still egocentric and self-assured. He’s still convinced that he’s the only one with the answer to any and every question.  
Then he wakes up the next day and weeps.  
When he cries I cry with him; and there is no one in this world that can make me ashamed of that.  
(Read 5618 Comments)  
XXXXXXXXXXX  
Sherlock stormed into Lestrade’s office and slammed the case file down in front of Lestrade, who calmly sat up straight and waited for the yelling to start.  
“I’m not stupid you know. How many days, John? How many days since I woke up?”  
“Sixty-four,” John replied immediately.  
“Twenty-three marks on the inside of this file,” Sherlock snapped, flipping it open, “I’ve been keeping track of how often you hand it to me!”  
Lestrade sighed and John rubbed his eyes in misery.  
“Do you recognize it, though, Sherlock? Do you remember looking at it?” John asked carefully.  
“No!” Sherlock snapped angrily, “That’s the point of the marks!”  
“No, Sher, I put the marks there,” John corrected gently.  
“You…” Sherlock flushed, looking down at the file again, “Yes, of course, those aren’t my usual slant…”  
“When you remember it I mark it down.”  
“Twenty-three out of Sixty-four…”  
“Sixty-two, actually,” John replied, “We weren’t showing it to you until you left the hospital. That’s actually pretty good, you know.”  
“Except not today,” Sherlock sank into a chair, “No mark today.”  
“No, I’m afraid not, but there’s another. Maybe you’ll recognize that one.”  
“Am I even helping?” Sherlock asked in frustration, “Do I solve any cases? Or just the same ones over and again?”  
“When you recognize both files we give you a fresh one,” John explained, handing him the second file they used for their tests.  
“Do I solve them?” He asked hopefully.  
“More often than not. I think you calculated it the other day as being roughly the same solve rate you had before you were shot.”  
“I suppose Moriarty’s lost interest in me,” Sherlock sighed as though disappointed.  
“Yes, I suppose he has, but he’s a fool. You’ll be back on track and hunting him down in no time,” John encouraged.  
“Is that what you tell yourself, John? When you go to bed alone instead of with me?” Sherlock snarled angrily, tossing the file back down on Lestrade’s desk.  
“Wait, hang on,” Lestrade stammered, sitting up, “John, the hell is he talking about?”  
“It’s not what you think,” John replied, hands raised.  
“Yes it is,” Sherlock groused, “I remember that much, John.”  
“Some days you don’t,” John replied sadly, “That’s why…”  
“You’re taking advantage of him!” Lestrade shouted, jumping to his feet furiously.  
“No! No I’m not!”  
“You think I haven’t heard of Watson’s Wenches?!” Lestrade snapped.  
“He never slept with them,” Sherlock scoffed.  
“What he said,” John nodded, pointing at Sherlock.  
“However,” Sherlock smirked, “They did perform for him.”  
“Not helping, Sherlock!” John snapped.  
“The fuck is going on, John! The truth!” Lestrade demanded.  
“Alright, alright!” John crossed the room and shut the door, “When I first got back some things happened between Sherlock and I, but it was before he got shot. I haven’t touched him since. I wouldn’t do him like that.”  
“Stupid,” Sherlock scoffed, “You’re denying yourself needlessly. If I were unwilling there’s no reason I couldn’t simply say no.”  
“You’re not exactly yourself,” John replied.  
Sherlock looked up at him with a shocked expression and John and Lestrade stilled in confusion.  
“I see,” Sherlock stated, his face carefully blank now, “I hadn’t realized. My apologies, John.”  
“For… for what?”  
“You no longer find me attractive without my mind intact. It’s completely understandable, of course, I’m hardly…”  
“No, no, that’s not it at all,” John argued instantly, “I just don’t want to take advantage of you.”  
“Again: my decision making faculties are intact. It’s only my memory effected… unless there’s something you aren’t telling me?”  
“No, that’s it. Your memory. Your short-term memory, for the most part.”  
“For the most part?”  
“Sometimes you seem to randomly forget things that ought to be long term, but the doctor hasn’t noticed a pattern so we’re not sure why or what’s going on.”  
Sherlock stared down at the file in front of him and moved the pictures about.  
“Anything?” John asked hopefully.  
“No… fifty-seven marks on this one.”  
“You recognize it more often for some reason,” John explained, “A little boy named Richard Brook.”  
“Richard Brook… Of course! Have I solved it? Even once?” Sherlock asked, eagerly flipping through the file now.  
“No, not that one.”  
“Damn!” Sherlock slammed his hand down, “Have I explained to you why I recognize it more often?”  
“No. Do you today?”  
“No.”  
“Why do you recognize it more often?”  
“I’ll tell you when I solve it,” Sherlock replied, pressing his hands together in front of his lips.  
John smiled, “That’s what you always say.”  
XXXXXXXXXX  
John sat on the edge of his bed, thinking through the day. 180 days exactly since Sherlock woke up. He was having more good days than bad now. He almost always remembered the hospital, always made it through his memory games, and most days he recalled that he and John were intimate at one point. He brought it up in front of Lestrade often enough that the man had mentioned it to Mycroft who had installed cameras in their flat. Sherlock had taken them down; three times, so far.  
John stood up and headed downstairs again, knocking on Sherlock’s door. The detective answered with a pleasant nod, his dressing gown on and his violin in one hand.  
“I was just going to play a bit. Did you want a listen?” Sherlock asked, heading out into the sitting room, “I broke a string a moment ago. Luckily I still had some stashed in a drawer in my room. I remembered where it was on my own, but I had a note in there with the date of when I purchased them. It was AC.”  
AC was After Coma. John grabbed a pen and Sherlock’s memory journal and jotted down that occurrence.  
“Well, I’d hate to stop you playing, but that wasn’t what I had in mind. Congrats on the memory retrieval, though.”  
“What did you come down for, then?”  
“Sherlock… I’d like to kiss you.”  
“Kiss me…” Sherlock looked up in surprise, “I thought you weren’t… I thought you didn’t find me…”  
Sherlock looked down again, fidgeting and glancing over his violin once more.  
“I definitely still find you attractive.”  
“I’m a burden to you. You quit your job to take care of me. I saw the paperwork declaring me disabled. I stole it, apparently. It’s in my room in my nightstand, right where I’ll look first when I find out something’s off about me.”  
“I suppose it won’t do any good to take it from you,” John sighed.  
“Not really, no. If I’ve looked at it for as often as I think I have I’ll likely remember it most days.”  
“Not today?”  
“I did recall it today, yes.”  
John sighed and wrote that down, too.  
“Mycroft is paying for everything?”  
“Sort of. We get some money from the government, too, and Mrs. Hudson is writing you off on her taxes as a dependent instead of charging us rent.”  
“Smashing,” Sherlock scoffed, “Why the hell would you want to kiss me?”  
“Because I love you, and it’s your six month anniversary of waking up.”  
Sherlock blinked, “So it is.”  
“You’re not shocked I love you?”  
“No, that’s obvious,” Sherlock snorted.  
“A moment ago you questioned me finding you attractive.”  
“Attractive and ‘in love’ are two different things.”  
“So can I?”  
“Kiss me?”  
“Yeah.”  
“Of course.”

[ CHAPTER THIRTEEN ](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/16051.html)


	13. vincentmeoblinn | The Fall of John H. Watson Ch 13

John only meant it to be a kiss goodnight; sweet and tender the way his first kiss with Sherlock should have been. He should have known they weren’t capable of such a thing as Sherlock dropped his violin into his chair and all but tackled John after a few seconds of softly caressing lips. They ended up against the kitchen table where Sherlock’s lab equipment had been removed months ago just in case he forgot what he was doing mid-experiment and blew up the flat.

John had never been so grateful for a flat surface as Sherlock pushed him down on the table and started stripping his sleep pants off. John was rock hard and leaking by the time Sherlock finished chucking off his housecoat and underthings. The brilliant man swore a moment, crossed to the cabinets and yanked out a bottle of oil.

“We’re actually doing this?” John asked, his voice cracking embarrassingly.

“Yes.”

“Alright then.”

“Flip over,” Sherlock ordered, and John obeyed, glad for it to be out of his hands.

Sherlock slicked him up and then pressed a finger inside, stretching him with an almost medical manner. It didn’t dissuade John’s ardor, his arms were shaking by the time Sherlock decided he’d had enough and removed his digits to slick up his cock. John glanced over his shoulder nervously, getting a glimpse of Sherlock for the first time in months, and swallowed hard.

“This can be just as pleasurable for you as it will be for me,” Sherlock reminded, stroking a hand over John’s shoulder, “Studies show if you think of it as pleasurable it is more likely to be.”

“I know better ones that say you ought to locate my prostate,” John laughed a bit.

“Oh, I intend to,” Sherlock replied, “Turn around.”

John stood and turned and they kissed a moment, slower this time, and Sherlock cupped his buttocks firmly in both hands before pushing him back. John hopped up on the table and Sherlock pressed his hands to his shoulders and slowly pushed him backwards. Then he slid his hands down John’s chest, along each hip, and down to lift his legs onto his shoulders. Once secure he wrapped both hands around John’s hip and pressed his cock slowly between his slick cheeks. A bit of light thrusting allowed him to find John’s entrance, but once there he paused.

“I want to see your face, John,” Sherlock whispered, “I don’t want to doubt- even for a second- who I’m with. You’re too important for doubts.”

“Sherlock,” John whispered, then gripped his wrists as he leaned forward and pressed inside.

John hissed at the burn, felt the head press past the first ring of muscle, and moaned as Sherlock slid deep inside his body.

“Bloody hell,” John whispered, as the sensation went from alarming to an aching fullness.

“Mm,” Sherlock grunted in reply, his head thrown back, “Y-you…?”

“Fine. Yeah. Move?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock slid slowly out and then back in again, both of them panting a bit: John at the unusual feeling and Sherlock in pleasure. Sherlock adjusted his angle the next time, and John felt a surge of pleasure and saw stars.

“Oh!” John gasped, his cock swelling impossibly hard, “Oh, gods, this shouldn’t feel as good as it does!”

“Oh, yes it should,” Sherlock growled, and began to thrust faster.

John gasped and arched his back in pleasure, and then groaned as Sherlock nearly bent him in half.

_In for a penny, in for a pound._ John thought, and then lifted himself up on his elbows to kiss Sherlock hungrily. Sherlock moaned into John’s mouth, but John could barely breath so he soon fell back onto the table, gasping for breath as the table creaked beneath him.

“Close!” Sherlock gasped.

John gripped his cock, stroking it fast, and then moaned in bliss as Sherlock’s hands slid up his body to tweak his nipples. They stroked back down again to fondle his bollocks and then gripped his hips firmly to adjust his angle to once more stroke John’s prostate until he was climaxing with a startled cry.

“Yeeeees!” Sherlock cried out, then stilled as he pulsed into John’s grasping entrance.

Sherlock gave a few shallow thrusts to milk both their orgasms and then slowly slid free. John hissed in pain, but it wasn’t severe so he relaxed again soon enough, his legs hanging awkwardly off the table until Sherlock grasped his arms and pulled him upright. John stood on shaky legs and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck to hug him tightly.

“You brilliant, amazing, beautiful man,” John breathed.

“I’ve missed hearing you say that.”

XXXXXXXXXX

John awoke to Sherlock shaking him urgently.

“John. John!”

“Mmph, wha…?”

“I had a _horrible_ nightmare,” Sherlock insisted.

“Oh, oh, that’s,” John dragged himself into a sitting position and ran his hand over his face to wake himself up, “That’s awful, do you want to tell me about it?”

“I dreamt you were in prison and I _left_ you there.”

John sighed and pulled Sherlock into his arms, “It’s okay, love, it’s okay.”

“John, I… did that _happen_?”

“Yes, but it’s okay, because I don’t blame you. At all.”

“I love you.”

“I… I love you, too, Sherlock,” John replied, stunned by his words.

Sherlock pulled away, “Have we not said that before?”

“Well, no, not really.”

“I assumed… we’re sharing a bed,” Sherlock looked confused a moment.

“Yes,” John nodded, “We made love for the first time last night. Do you remember?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, his face relieved, “That was the first time? I haven’t missed any others?”

“No, just once,” John smiled in relief, “But you forgot about me being in prison?”

“No, I… I really did dream it,” Sherlock sighed and stretched out in the bed, “I was just hoping that it hadn’t been real at all. I remember the hospital…”

John grabbed the memory book and began writing as Sherlock listed major events and repeat actions.

“I remember… Brook.”

“Out of order, Sher. Brook’s the body they found in my bed. That was before the prison.”

“Wrong. Write it down.”

John sighed. He wrote it. Sherlock had insisted on this several times, but wouldn’t explain why. It apparently had nothing to do with the case file he reviewed occasionally or John’s own solved framing.

“Someday you’d better explain that one to me.”

“Mm, it will all become clear eventually.”

“Sherlock? What _exactly_ are you up to?” John asked.

“Unimportant.”

“Oh, I think it is. In the beginning you remembered that case file as often as you did specifics about the hospital and afterwards. It was almost eerie how much that one stayed in your head. I always thought it was the name, but you harp on it. Why?”

“I’ve been meeting him.”

“Meeting who?”

“Richard Brook.”  
  


[ CHAPTER FOURTEEN ](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/16175.html)

 


	14. vincentmeoblinn | The Fall of John H. Watson Ch 14

“Sherlock, that isn’t possible. He’s dead.”

“It’s an alias, obviously.”

“Is it Moriarty?”

“No, unless he’s better at disguises than I am,” Sherlock smiled softly.

“And you’re just fine with this?” John asked in alarm, “What if it’s someone dangerous?”

“Who could possibly lead us to Moriarty and the other people who framed you? My gods, why didn’t I think of that?”

“There’s no need to be sarcastic! Damn it, Sherlock!”

“This is _exactly_ why I didn’t tell you!” Sherlock snapped, sitting up in bed, “Because you insist on treating me like an invalid!”

“Sherlock, I love you, I respect you, but you have _limitations_ now. You can’t go chasing after a criminal when five minutes later you won’t remember what you were doing!”

“Don’t be ridiculous! I’m getting better! I remember most things now!”

“You remember _some_ things, Sher. You remember monumental things. You remember stubbing your toe, but you don’t remember the conversation we had before it. You remember a case you studied and solved for Lestrade, but not the one you couldn’t figure out.”

“I have solved every one he’s given me of late!”

“No, Sher, you haven’t.”

Sherlock paused, blinked, “You’re… I haven’t?”

“No, you haven’t. Sherlock… read this.”

John pulled his memory book out and handed it to Sherlock, who looked at it as if it had grown a mouth and might bite him.

“John… you write in this constantly.”

“It’s _your_ journal, Sherlock, I’m just your blogger.”

Sherlock took it and started turning pages. It took him a moment to figure out John’s shorthand, but once he had he sped through the book.

“Three days… three days in this book and I only remember fifty percent of what I’ve done and said? I repeated the same sentence five times to you yesterday?”

“You were reading the paper. Apparently the writer annoys you.”

“Kitty Riley? That woman _repels_ me.”

“That’s the sentence.”

Sherlock looked at John in horror, “I don’t remember saying it.”

“You remember the name. That’s something, Sherlock. She wasn’t writing before your coma. You _are_ remembering things… just not everything.”

“Does it… Is it obvious?”

“Yes, I’m afraid it is,” John sighed, “You get this sudden startled look on your face. The doctor says your brain is compensating for the confusion, though; that you don’t even remember the moment you realize you forgot something anymore. It’s your way of dealing with it so that you don’t question every action you take.”

“That’s… gods, that’s…”

“Sherlock, where are you meeting Brook? We need to go ask this guy some questions.”

“Have we had this conversation before?” Sherlock asked, his voice suddenly frightened and vulnerable.

“No,” John replied, gripping his hand firmly, “I’m sorry, Sher, I thought you were aware that things weren’t quite right yet. That’s why I keep the journal, so your doctor can review it and see your progress. He’s the one who taught me the shorthand. Sher, it _is_ getting better.”

“It doesn’t feel it,” Sherlock groaned, retrieving his hand to rub at his face, “How can you… how do you put up with me day in and day out?”

“I’ve lost my temper a fair few times.”

“I remember that. I just thought you disliked me more than before that… that I was such a burden that…” Sherlock looked away, face flushed in shame and expression contorted in frustrated anger.

“Oh, gods, I’m so sorry! I didn’t think! You’re remembering me yelling, but not why… Sherlock, most of the time I’ve lost my temper is from the repetition. You snap the same thing at me several times and by the last time I’m fed up. It’s not your fault. You aren’t even saying anything that would upset me normally just… I’m sorry.”

“You shouldn’t _have_ to be sorry! Damn it all!” Sherlock sighed in frustration, “I’m getting out of bed. I need to start my routine. We’re half an hour late.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

The routine. It was all encompassing and they both felt it. In fact, John knew instantly when he thought of it when Sherlock must be meeting Brook, because there were only a few times a day Sherlock was alone. During his morning shower, during his afternoon walk before tea, and during bed. His afternoon walk had been a concession they’d made. Sherlock had insisted that he needed time to himself and that John did as well. John spent the time reading and relaxing. Sherlock walked to the nearby Regents Park and back. It was a familiar and near enough walk that he wouldn’t get distracted and lose his way. If he strayed, John could easily locate him or call Mycroft to find him on the cameras. He’d only wandered off once, and it had been in pursuit of a mugger: the owner of the purse had been quite grateful and had given him a lift home. John had been in fits until he showed up, but then relaxed once he’d found out how and why their absent-minded detective had given them the slip.

John determined to follow Sherlock on his walk that day, but as usual the man read him like a book. John found himself waking out of a drugged stupor at half-passed four; he staggered up, nauseous and frustrated, and called out for Sherlock. The man didn’t answer. A glance at the table showed Sherlock’s memory journal gone and a note in its place.

_John,_

_My dear doctor, I have to finish what I started. I will get revenge for you._

_Yours,  
Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective  
  
 _

[ CHAPTER FIFTEEN ](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/16521.html)

 


	15. vincentmeoblinn | The Fall of John H. Watson Ch 15

Before John really had a chance to panic the door to the flat flew open and Sherlock slammed it shut behind him, leaning on it and panting for breath as though he’d run the entire way.

“Sherlock?” John asked, staggering a bit as the drugs hadn’t worn off, “W-what happened?”

“Hm?” Sherlock asked.

John felt his stomach plunge. He knew that look. Sherlock had just forgotten something.

_Shit! Maybe I can trigger a recollection_.

“You just bolted through the door and slammed it as though you were being chased.”

Sherlock scoffed, “No I didn’t, John. I think I’d remember if I were being chased. You did say I remembered _monumental_ things, and that’s a bit intense, don’t you think?”

“I’d like to, and yet here you are out of breath and leaning on the door.”

Sherlock blinked, “Oh. So I am. Interesting.”

“A bit, yeah, are you bleeding?”

Sherlock checked his nose automatically, but it was his knuckles that John had noticed. He crossed the room and examined them.

“You’ve been in a fight,” John diagnosed, “I’ll have to clean this up… as soon as I throw up.”

John barely made it to the bathroom before being spectacularly sick.

“Are you ill? Should I call Sarah?” Sherlock asked in concern.

“Gods, no. Don’t call my ex. I don’t care if I’m on my deathbed. Never call my ex. Also, I’m fine. I’ve just been drugged.”

“By whom?”

John gave Sherlock an infuriated look and he cottoned on quickly: “Oh. I suppose this is one of those times you expect an apology?”

“Just… never mind,” John groaned, “Can you get me a glass of water?”

“Sure.”

Sherlock was gone an unusually long amount of time, but just when John decided he’d blanked on him again the man came back with water and a couple of crackers.

“I checked my room to find out what I might have dosed you with,” Sherlock explained, “I left myself a note. The side effects should pass soon, but you’ll want to eat some crackers to deal with the nausea.”

“Thanks,” John replied gratefully.

About a half hour later he was feeling himself again and made his way out to the sitting room after cleaning himself up.

“There you are,” Sherlock sighed, “Are you feeling better?”

“Yes, no thanks to you. I suppose it’s pointless to exact a promise from you not to _drug_ me again.”

“Probably. Take a look at my memory book and tell me what you think.”

John scooped it up, relieved to realize that Sherlock had actually kept _notes_ of his wild day away.

**9A – Sorry I drugged you, John, but I couldn’t let you stop me meeting Brook. Also, I must contact an illegal arms dealer from BC.**

**10A – I seem to have forgotten why I left the flat so early. Upon searching my mind and focusing for a bit I recalled wanting to procure a weapon. As I page through this book I see that my being able to recall that is a significant achievement for me. We must make sure and mention this to my neurologist.**

**11A – Have obtained a weapon.**

**12N – I’m eating lunch, John. Routine is still being maintained. Food here is terrible. Don’t let me eat at Biscollete’s again.**

**12:30P – I see from this book that I’ve eaten here before and had a similar experience. We must modify our memory routine each morning. Instead of silly flashcards we should focus on things of significance such as what I have learned the previous days.**

**1P – Brook has informed me that while Moriarty is no longer interested in me (he used the words ‘spoiled goods’) he has indicated that Mycroft is of interest to him. This is troublesome as I recall Brook hinting at me on numerous occasions that he would like to know more about Mycroft. I have no idea what I divulged, if anything, but his meetings with me must have had a purpose and he must have been getting results in order to continue with them.**

**2P – Richard Brook = Reichen Bach**

**4:45P – Returned to the flat out of breath with minor injuries indicating was running and in a brawl. John violently ill. Accuses me of drugging him. See from book is accurate assumption. Care for John. What does Reichen Bach mean?**

“That’s it,” John blinked, “What happened to three? Or Four?”

“I was apparently not able to write at those times. Likely because I was running and fighting.”

“Oh, well, yeah, that makes sense. So what _does_ Reichen Bach mean? Is it referring to that painting you located a while back?”

“No idea.”

“The murdered man in my bed was named Richard Brook, too. If Richard Brook means Reichen Bach then this isn’t a new scheme of Moriarty’s, it’s four years old.”

“Older, remember that murdered child? His name was also Richard Brook. Then what has it to do with Mycroft, if anything,” Sherlock mused, pressing his hands to his lips in his usual thinking position, “And why mention Reichenbach Falls? Has it to do with the painting or the actual location in Switzerland?”

“A better question,” John wondered, “Would be why he or someone else randomly attacked you. You’ve been seeing the blighter for months with no issue. Why now?”

“I’m also aware I’ve taken notes before,” Sherlock muttered, “To my knowledge nothing has changed.”

“Where are the other notes?” John asked.

“My top drawer in my bureau. Where I used to keep my syringes and such.”

John fetched them and sat down to go through them. Some were scattered and repetitive, clearly confused and disoriented. They were also dated. Since Sherlock’s phone had a calendar on it, the date and time were his usual fallbacks when he was confused. John could see a clear progression in the notes showing how mentally damaged Sherlock had been during their first meetings, up through today.

“Oh, dear,” John sighed.

“What?” Sherlock asked, instantly sitting up and looking both annoyed and eager, “What have you noticed? What have I _missed?_ ”

“Sherlock, this is like a timeline of your mental state,” John stated, holding the papers up, “By meeting with you every day and giving you a bit of mystery he’s learning where you’re at in your treatment. Your notes are a dead giveaway.”

“Then he’s aware I’m still having blank spots in my memory. What’s the problem?”

“The problem?” John laughed, “The problem is before you were a mess, a joke even. Today you showed up with a book to refer _back to other days_. You weren’t just taking notes of today’s meeting: you were getting _organized_. Sherlock, you’re a threat again.”

Sherlock beamed as if John had just informed him that Christmas had come early.  
  


[ CHAPTER SIXTEEN ](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/16699.html)

 

 


	16. vincentmeoblinn | The Fall of John H. Watson Ch 16

“We have to take this _seriously_ Sherlock!” John insisted in frustration, “He probably tried to kill you today!”

“More than once, knowing him,” Sherlock replied with a snort.

“Damn it, Sherlock! You… wait… last time they sniped us through the windows. We have to get out of here. Mrs. Hudson, too. He’s not above taking hostages.”

“You really think he’d threaten my _housekeeper_?” Sherlock asked in amusement.

“You once threw a man out a window for slapping her. Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t care about her.”

Sherlock looked away. John gripped his arm and tugged him upright.

“Bedroom. Pack. Now. Bring useful stuff. For me, too.”

“I don’t see how my intellect should be wasted on as trivial a task as _packing_.”

“Fine, then. Work up a plan while I do it, but avoid the windows. In fact… Mrs. Hudson!” John shouted, and waited until the lady herself came upstairs, “Take Sherlock downstairs with you. The _both_ of you avoid the windows. I don’t think I have to point out you’ll have to make sure he doesn’t forget to. Pack a bag. We’re leaving.”

“Sherlock, what’s going on?” Mrs. Hudson asked as John stomped into the bedroom to throw a few things into a bag.

“Apparently I’m being hunted by an psychotic criminal mastermind!” Sherlock replied cheerfully.

“Oh, good for you, dear, but what’s all that about avoiding the windows?”

“It’s the same fellow who had me shot last time.”

“Oh dear!”

John contacted Lestrade who suggested a police escort.

“No way,” John argued, “He’s likely got people on the force and making it big and showy will just give him what he wants. We need to move carefully and quietly. Meet us at the station, but switch cabs repeatedly and _don’t_ take the direct route. Don’t even tell the first cabs where you’re going.”

“Why am I going to the station? If you don’t want police involved what am I to do about it?”

“You’re a target, too.”

“Me?” Lestrade scoffed.

“Yes, you, you’re someone Sherlock cares about. He’d kill or die for you, and that’s exactly what Moriarty counts on.”

“Come on now, Sherlock doesn’t give a shit about…”

“He forgave you, didn’t he?”

Lestrade was silent a moment, and then, “I’ll be there. When?”

“6:35 _precisely_.”

“John, Mrs. Hudson is making me help her pack her _underthings_ ,” Sherlock complained suddenly, making John jump with his silent approach, “I’ve told her it’s the wrong season to go on holiday in the first place, but she insists we must and is doing that annoying thing where she talks high pitched and… what are you doing?”

John had grabbed Sherlock and tugged him away from the open window, and then he pressed close to him and snogged him hungrily.

“Mmmm,” Sherlock moaned in approval, “You’re packing things, too, are we going someplace?”

“Yes. As far away from Switzerland as possible.”

“Why? Switzerland is lovely. Remember that painting I saved, the _Falls of Reichenbach_? That was set in Switzerland.”

“Yeah. I know. Hated it. We’re going anywhere else. How about America? India? China?”

“I’ve been to all those places,” Sherlock frowned, “Is this a romantic venture? We should go to Paris. Isn’t that supposed to be romantic in some cliché way? I know how you love clichés.”

“I do _not_ love… never mind. Paris it is.”

“Damn, I was rather hoping you’d rather not. I hate French food. Although their wine is…”

“Bloody hell, Sherlock! Pick someplace!” John snapped.

“Alright, no need to shout. How about… Switzerland. I’ve never been there, have you?”

John groaned and sat down on the bed, rubbing at his face.

“John?”

“What?”

“I was joking. How about Denmark? It’s far from Switzerland but not impossible to get to in a day.”

“Fantastic. Yes. Thank you. Denmark it is.”

“What are we avoiding Switzerland for, anyway?”

“Reichenbach. Richard Brook.”

Sherlock blinked in confusion a moment and then seemed to recall, “Fleeing won’t keep us safe forever.”

“No, but it might buy us time to think up a better plan.”

XXXXXXXXXX

They crawled out of a window in 221C to avoid the eyes on the streets, coming out in the alley behind the bins. They slipped down the alley to the busiest road and hailed cabs, ignoring the first two that pulled over and hopping in the third. Sherlock then demonstrated his knowledge of the streets of London was still very much in tact and took them on a merry romp before finally ending up at the train station at exactly 6:34PM. They boarded the train and met Lestrade who was shocked to see a nun, an Italian priest, and a young, muscular porter enter his compartment.

“Sorry, this spots reserved,” Lestrade stated, but they ignored him and sat down.

“Hush, Lestrade,” Sherlock hissed from beneath his habit.

“Sherlock? Why the fuck are you dressed as a nun?”

“Because it was easier to make Mrs. Hudson a male Italian priest since she already has wrinkles.”

“Sherlock!” John hissed.

“I’ve been using new skin crème!” Mrs Hudson wailed.

“That and John looks fantastic with his arms and part of his chest shown off, don’t you agree?” Sherlock continued.

“You are a bit ripped, mate,” Lestrade grinned, “Pity I don’t go for blokes.”

John groaned and rubbed a hand over his face. The train began to pull away and John breathed a sigh of relief.

“John…” Sherlock hissed, “Moriarty himself is hailing the train.”

“What?!” John tried to scramble over him to look, but Sherlock pushed him back down.

“Relax, he’s too late. We’ll have to get off at the second station after this one. He won’t have had time to catch up by then. He’ll assume I got off at the third, but we’ll go for the second. Don’t worry, John. I have a plan.”

“Then you’d better either tell me or write it down,” John insisted.

Sherlock frowned, but took out his memory book and a pen and began to write.

 

  

[ CHAPTER SEVENTEEN ](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/16927.html)


	17. vincentmeoblinn | The Fall of John H. Watson Ch 17

They got off the train and ducked behind a luggage cart just in time to see a private car come flying down the track.

“There goes Moriarty,” John whispered.

Sherlock gave him a confused look, then nodded as though he understood what John had said. John knew exactly what this meant.

“Open your memory diary and read the last two pages,” John told him as he tugged them upright.

They had ditched their costumes in the train and were dressed in their regular clothes again. Sherlock read his book while they walked, John’s hand tightly clasped around his upper arm. Sherlock’s trust was beautiful. The man nodded to John, put the book back in the inside pocket of his jacket, and slipped his arm around John’s shoulders.

“So where did we end up? Clochester?”

“Yeah.”

“My plan details we switch things up and head south. We’ll go to Southend-on-Sea and catch a boat to The Hague.”

“Fantastic, when’s the next train?”

“My memory says 10:00PM, but we’d best check the schedule.”

Sherlock was correct and they settled into a café to wait, John insisting Sherlock eat _something_ just in case it was a while before they got a chance to eat again. Sherlock managed two cups of tea, a dinner role, and a bit of John’s Sheppard’s pie. Then he sat back, slipped off his shoe, and proceeded to rub his sock covered foot up the inside of John’s pant leg.

John looked up in surprise, but Sherlock was staring out the window with a bored look on his face. The man switched to the inside and slid his foot all the way up John’s calf, thigh, and pressed the bottom of his foot into John’s groin. It had been done so slowly and firmly that John was half hard already and pressed back as subtly as he could.

“Something wrong, John?” Lestrade asked from beside him, “You’ve stopped eating.”

“Just thinking,” John replied, and then winced when he realized his voice was far too deep.

Lestrade leaned back, glanced beneath the table, and smirked, “I’ll bet you are.”

Sherlock wiggled his toes defiantly and John bit his lip to stop from grunting in pleasure as the man inadvertently (purposely?) stimulated the head of his cock.

“Sh-Sherlock could we not do this here?”

“Spoil sport,” Sherlock sighed, pulling his foot away instantly.

XXXXXXXXXXX

They made it to The Hague by 9PM the next day, but not before a series of misadventures that Sherlock accredited to Moriarty. A cow in the tracks on the second train they boarded slowed them down for several hours. Their boat sprung a leak and the entire ship had to be evacuated into another one. Someone on that boat died mysteriously from what Sherlock was certain was poisoning, and the entire vessel was halted and questioned. Sherlock gave himself the name of Sigerson and, at John’s urging, pretended not to know anything about the murdered woman.

“We have to maintain a low profile, Sherlock,” John soothed, “You can come back later and tell them how it happened and who did it. Write it in your book.”

“I’ll be needing another soon,” Sherlock sighed.

“No problem, we’ll pick one up now.”

John paid in cash to avoid the transaction being traced, but wasn’t sure it would do any good if Sherlock was correct. There was no train directly to Denmark, but there was one close to the German border, so they hopped on that one. As they were leaving the station, Sherlock glanced out the window and watched the station with a look of worry on his face.

“Something wrong, Sherlock?”

“I feel like I’ve forgotten something.”

“Check your book,” John urged, hoping this would become habit soon and the man would do so without prompting.

Sherlock opened his book to the last page and started working his way backwards, his concerned look increasing until he looked up in alarm.

“We’re going to Denmark?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes, why?”

“This train is headed south.”

“What?”

“It’s going south. Denmark is north.”

John looked out the window, to see the ocean flashing by _on their right_.

“Shit! How the hell did he…?!”

The door flew open and a blonde with a cruel face smirked at them. He stepped inside their car and shut the door behind himself.

“Hello gentlemen, ma’am. Can I fetch you anything from the food trolley? It’s a long ride to Switzerland, and we’ve got five transfers to make in the next ten hours.”

“Who the fuck are you?” John demanded.

“John!” Mrs. Hudson scolded.

“Sorry, Mrs. Hudson,” He winced.

The man gave Mrs. Hudson a baffled look then answered John with a leer on his face.

“Moran. Sebastian Moran, but you can call me Colonel. This train- and each we’ll be boarding from here on out- are rigged with explosives. You try to jump off, you pick a fight, you alert anyone to your situation, and we’ll all be sleeping on clouds tonight.”

Sherlock snorted, “Inconceivable. The likelihood of us being blown _that_ high is virtually impossible unless it occurs during th…”

“Sherlock!” John snapped, “It’s a metaphor.”

“Oh. _Religion_ ,” Sherlock rolled his eyes in disgust, “It is _still_ inconceivable since I highly doubt any of _us_ are going to heaven.”

“You speak for yourself, young man,” Mrs. Hudson scolded.

“I’ve been pretty good myself, you know,” John replied, “I mean, I’ve killed people, sure, but I’ve not done so without due cause. You’ve not been awful, either. At least not since I’ve known you.”

“Fine,” Sherlock grimaced, “We’re all going to heaven. Happy?”

“Not him,” Mrs. Hudson, responded with a wave towards Moran, “Threatening good people without any cause at all. It’s not decent.”

“The fuck is this lady?” Moran asked Lestrade, probably because he wasn’t the only one babbling like a lunatic.

“Mrs. Hudson. Mind your language around her, she’s a proper lady,” Lestrade replied with narrowed eyes.

“ _Thank_ you, Gregory,” Mrs. Hudson smiled.

“Do none of you realize I just threatened your lives?”

“It’s getting a bit tedious, to be honest,” Sherlock sighed, “One can only be high strung for so long before the adrenalin wears off.”

Mrs. Hudson nodded and the rest murmured their agreements.

“Well, fuck,” Moran snapped, and flung himself down in an empty seat to sulk.

[ CHAPTER EIGHTEEN ](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/17290.html)


	18. vincentmeoblinn | The Fall of John H. Watson Ch 18

 

Throughout the course of the ride Sherlock referred to Moran as Brook six times, so that solved the riddle of who he’d been talking to for so long. At the second train station Moran picked up a paper and showed it to Sherlock with a triumphant smirk. Sherlock paled when he saw it and passed it to John.

**_Government Official Mycroft Holmes Arrested for Treason to Crown_ **

“What? Why?” John asked in horror, skimming through the article to find the reason.

“It doesn’t say,” Lestrade growled as he looked it over, “It’s just his bloody life story!”

“This is my fault, of course,” Sherlock stated, “You and I both know that, so you’re hoping to damage my morale by arresting my brother. It won’t work. I can’t stand my brother.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t care about him,” Moran sneered.

“Actually, it rather implies I don’t. I fled England with everyone I care about, do you see my brother amongst us?”

The man frowned angrily, “You still aren’t going to be dealing well. Now big brother can’t bail you out!”

“If I trusted him to do so, don’t you think I’d have gone to him in the first place?”

Moran threw his arms up in the air in frustration, “Is there _no_ pissing you off?!”

“Brook? What are you doing here?” Sherlock replied, looking around in confusion, “Come to think of it, what are we all doing here, and where is here in the first place. Ah, Switzerland by that man’s clothes…”

“READ YOUR BOOK!” John, Moran, and Lestrade all shouted.

“Fine! Honestly,” Sherlock snapped, pulling the book out, “No need to shout.”

Sherlock opened the book, pulled out his pen, jotted a note, and passed the book to John while Moran was hailing a cab.

**This is fun. Did you see his face?**

John smirked at Sherlock, then decided he wanted to do more than smile and pulled the man tightly against him for a hungry.

“Oi! We’re in public!” Lestrade griped. snog

“Oh, aren’t they sweet!” Mrs. Hudson cooed.

“Break it up! We’ve gotta catch a cab to the path, and then I hope you lot are up for a hike.”

John and Sherlock slowly separated, John admiring the beautiful blush across Sherlock’s high cheekbones.

“Gods, I love you,” John told him firmly.

“Same,” Sherlock replied steadily, bussing his forehead.

Mrs. Hudson looked misty eyed as John and Sherlock clasped hands and followed Moran to his cab.

“There’s not enough room for all of us,” Sherlock stated calmly, “We’ll have to split up.”

“I’m aware of that,” Moran smirked, “The drivers are ours, so don’t try anything.”

That being said, he separated them and got in the cab with Mrs. Hudson and John, after putting Sherlock and Lestrade in the first one.

John looked up at the cabs rearview mirror and did everything possible to control his facial expression.

“Why split Sherlock and I up?” John asked miserably, as he watched the first cab pull away.

“He won’t try anything while you’re with me,” Moran replied.

“What makes you think I won’t try anything?” John asked.

“You aren’t that stupid,” Moran snorted.

“Why? What would you do? We’re obviously all headed to our deaths anyway. We’re only participating so you don’t blow up five trains full of innocent people.”

“You want a chance to kiss him goodbye? I suggest you behave yourself, Captain.”

“Watson?” The cabbie asked as though for confirmation.

“Do it,” John stated firmly.

“Do wha-“ Moran gurgled as the cabbies hand shot out and a knife buried itself in Moran’s throat.

The man thrashed a moment, and then went still. John tugged his jacket off, then his sweater, and used the sweater to cover Moran’s bleeding throat.

“There, now if the fellows ahead look back he’ll just look like he’s cold. Keep driving Jacobs, and thank you.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“For what?”

“Not staying out of trouble, sir.”

“We’ll discuss your re-lapse into crime later. Follow that cab and try not to look suspicious. They think you’re still with them.”

“Yes, Captain Watson, sir.”

“Good man,” John clapped him on the shoulder and slid the partition shut again, pulling his coat on to ward off the chill of the mountains.

[ CHAPTER NINETEEN ](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/17660.html)


	19. vincentmeoblinn | The Fall of John H. Watson Ch 19

They reached the base of the trail that led up to the highest point of the falls of Reichenbach, the water was already roaring in the distance and to their left and descending hundreds of meters. A trail disappeared up above them, turning almost immediately. The cabs both stopped and their cab driver got out with a quieting signal to John. He headed towards the cabby emerging from the first cab.

“Hey!” He shouted to him, but the rest of his words were drowned out by the falls. 

John waited impatiently while they approached each other, feeling a bit panicked. He wanted Sherlock and the trains safe, yes, but he didn’t want to risk one of his Wenches in the process. There was a moment where Jacobs pointed back towards them, then quickly shanked the other cab driver. Sherlock and Lestrade stepped out of the car and Mrs. Hudson rushed forward to hug Sherlock tightly. John felt a bit guilty. She had been so quiet that he’d quite forgotten she was in the car and that she might be horrified by the sudden death of their captor. Thankfully she seemed calm, if tearful, when he approached her. 

“Now what, Sherlock?” John asked, “He’ll likely notice and blow up the trains and we’re a good ten minute drive to Meiringen to raise the alarm. A lot can happen in ten minutes when detonators are involved. Especially if we haven’t got a way to communicate.”

“I know the local language,” Jacobs stated, “It’s why I was picked for this mission. I can drive up and alert them.”

“I’ll go, too,” Lestrade stated firmly, “A badge will pull more weight then an ex-felon… er, no offense.”

“Just don’t arrest me after,” Jacobs snorted.

They hopped in the cab and started driving off after Lestrade gave both Sherlock and John a worried look. 

“Sher?” John asked. 

Sherlock was looking up the trail, his arm still firmly around Mrs. Hudson’s shoulders, but his mind was clearly elsewhere.

“I have to end this, John,” Sherlock stated, “I can’t let him keep haunting me. I need to heal.”

“Okay. We go up. Mrs. Hudson will wait with the car. If we’re not back down in…”

“No. I do.”

“Sherlock, I’m not leaving you.”

Sherlock walked towards John with Mrs. Hudson tucked against his side as though sheltering her from the roaring water in the distance. He grasped John’s hand firmly and smiled softly.

“I’ll be fine.”

“I’m not leaving you. Period. You can’t… I know you’re still brilliant, but you can’t function alone.”

“I’ll manage the walk to the top. It’s not more than half an hour and my mind stays steady for several hours. I’ll be fine. Besides, you faced prison alone; think of this as _my_ sentence.”

“Not happening. I forgave you for that, remember?”

“My dear doctor,” Sherlock sighed, “I’m afraid it is.”

John felt something cold click against his wrists and looked down to see Lestrade’s handcuffs around his wrist and fastened to one of Mrs. Hudson’s wrists. She was facing the opposite way so there was no way they could move quickly.

“Oh dear!” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, and then echoed it when Sherlock tossed the cuff keys over the falls. 

“Fucking hell!” John swore angrily, “Sherlock!”

There was nothing for it. Sherlock was bolting up the trail, though he paused at the top to shout back at them: “Get in the cab! Stay safe!”

“No! Sherlock!” John started forward, tugging Mrs. Hudson along, but it was impossible. 

Angry, he grabbed a stone off the side of the trail, found a larger rock, and began beating the chain between their wrists. Mrs. Hudson was sobbing pitifully, terrified for Sherlock and afraid of the rage in John’s face. He had no time to console her. When he finally cracked through the cuff he shouted at her to get in the cab and bolted up the trail. 

<http://www.visit-switzerland.ch/images/site/reichenbach_1.jpg>

<http://hasliberg.files.wordpress.com/2012/08/img_2447.jpg>

<http://wellreadsherlockian.files.wordpress.com/2013/01/reichenbach-falls-suiza-las-mejores-cataratas-del-mundo.jpg>[  
  
](http://wellreadsherlockian.files.wordpress.com/2013/01/reichenbach-falls-suiza-las-mejores-cataratas-del-mundo.jpg)

[ CHAPTER TWENTY ](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/17756.html)

 


	20. vincentmeoblinn | The Fall of John H. Watson Ch 20

John ran until his lungs burned and then kept going despite the pain. He slid on rocks, tripped on sticks, and staggered into bushes. At one point he crossed a slick bridge, drenched from the water, and very nearly toppled over the edge. By the time he reached the pinnacle of the falls he was soaked through and shaking from a combination of freezing cold on his face and hands and unbearable heat beneath his coat. 

John cast about in terror, his eyes looking for any sign of his lover, but there were only footprints in the slick mud. John took a moment, a deep breath, and told himself to think like Sherlock. He studied the ground, the branches of bushes off to one side, the crumbled ledge of the end of the path, and finally sat down on a boulder to weep. What fantasies had flashed through his mind on the way up involving beating Moriarty to a pulp, or grasping Sherlock’s hand just before he fell off the ledge, were drifting away and being replaced with the cruel reality. 

This time, it was Sherlock’s turn to fall, and John hadn’t been there to catch him. John pressed his frozen face into his shaking hands and wept.

“John!” Jacob’s voice echoed up the path.

XXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock was glad he had stayed in shape these last (who knew how many?) months since he was shot. He bolted up the path, stayed steady on the slippery areas, and made it to the summit winded but ready for action having kept a constant, but not rushed, pace the entire time.

“You’re quite the runner,” Moriarty flirted, “I bet your arse is as tight as a vice. Does John enjoy it?”

The man was dressed in his impeccable suit with a heavy black coat over it. He was dry, which could only mean he had been here for hours rather than that he’d miraculously stayed dry on the way up. Or perhaps he’d had a helicopter drop him down to this point via rope ladder. Sherlock wouldn’t put it past him, but he was betting on the former rather than the latter theory. 

“Not of yet,” Sherlock panted, focusing on steadying himself and not stiffening up from either the cold or the run. 

“Pity. So many wasted months. If you’d been my ward I’d have had you in _eeevery_ way imaginable.”

“Is that what you want? Sex? I can think of better locations.”

Moriarty smiled wickedly, “Oh, Sherly. What makes you think I haven’t had you six ways from Sunday?”

“I usually remember monumental events-“

“-Flattery will get you _eeeverywhere-“_

“-So I imagine I’d remember choking to death on my own vomit.”

Moriarty’s face turned violent, but in a still way that was far more horrifying than his outbursts had been at the pool. 

“Why here? What’s so special about this place?”

“Aside from you finding that painting making you oh so popular with the fangirls?”

“Yes, aside from that.”

“The face.”

“Whose face? John’s?”

“Oh, no, _yours._ I have ever so many pictures. Would you like to see the moment I realized you were in love with him? It might _surprise_ _you_!” Moriarty singsonged.

Moriarty pulled a plastic bag from his pocket with a manila envelope inside. One could only assume photographs were inside, 4X6, no more than two. Sherlock held out his hand even as his mind categorized the various poisons that could be placed on papers and transferred into the victim by skin contact.

“Trade you,” Moriarty smirked.

‘Trade me… what?”

“These photos for your _diary_.”

“You mean my memory book.”

“I mean your diary.”

Sherlock smirked as if amused even as his mind chased that situation down eventual pitfalls. He would remember John and he had been on a train together in a dangerous situation. He was certain of that. He would remember Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson had been there. Beyond that…

Sherlock hesitated and Moriarty smirked, “The other photo is the moment _he_ fell in love with _you_.”

Sherlock held the book out and they both snatched their prizes up. Sherlock slipped his into his coat pocket, ignoring the twinge of guilt at having rolled it a bit. Moriarty smirked and pocketed Sherlock’s book as well. 

“You’re not going to open it now?”

“Without a lab to verify the contents aren’t toxic? No.”

“Pity. I was so looking forward to seeing the look on your face before you died. Oh well. Can’t win them all.”

With that Moriarty rushed Sherlock, his face murderous, and they were instantly locked in tight combat. Sherlock’s martial arts skills coming instantly into play, but he still tried to reason with the madman. Now that he knew there were no bombs rigged on the cliff side he was hoping for a daring rescue from his favorite sexy ex-felon. 

“Why kill me? Why here? Why no style or panache?”

“I don’t need style or panache to kill you, Sherlock Holmes. You’re ordinary now. I just need. _These. Two. Hands.”_

Back and forth they swayed until the rock beneath Moriarty’s feet gave way and with a shout and a look of fear they teetered on the edge. Sherlock’s heart broke as he realized there was only one way: both or neither. 

_ I’m so sorry, John. I wanted more time with you.  _

Then he leaned forward and Moriarty screamed: “No! NO!! You were on the si-“

Whatever his last thoughts were they were drowned out by his screams as they toppled down. Moriarty’s hands tore free of Sherlock’s clothing and the man kicked out at him. Unbeknownst to Moriarty, who slammed into a projection and then continued down the fall in silence, his accidental kick saved Sherlock’s life. It pushed him that last few inches further onto the same ledge that Moriarty was dashed upon and he lay there, the wind knocked out of him, his head ringing and stars dancing before his eyes.

_ John… I… _

Blackness.

Hospital.

John seeming suddenly distant, pushing him away, looking sad and strained.

Case files. The same ones, over and again until he remembered them regularly and they let him actually take up proper cases again. No going out, but still consulting and feeling like he wasn’t a waste of space.

John’s looks of longing in the distance.

Richard Brook.

John angry and frustrated with him, Sherlock feeling alone and empty.

John’s lips on his, his hands in his hair, the warm crush of their bodies and the sounds he made as he came with Sherlock buried inside of him.

John, misery in his eyes, telling him that he was worse than he thought. That he still had relapses.

A brick falling from a building, the scuttle of someone up above. An attempt on his life! Someone darted out of an alley and he felt hands on his lapels. 

The train. Moran. The people he loved in danger, their faces slightly blurred as though the memory were old. 

Switzerland? Denmark? Where was he? Where is John? Lestrade? Mrs. Hudson? Help!! Help me!! I’m lost!

Someone’s face contorted in rage, but it was so fuzzy, so confusing, that he wasn’t sure it had even happened.

Pain.

Sherlock gasped in a breath, aware that the flash of memories he still retained had taken mere seconds. Agony shot up and down his body, focusing on his ribs and his clearly dislocated shoulder. He was cold, bitterly cold. Sherlock struggled upright, his eyes trying to darken as he fought the pain. He had been attacked. He was sure of it. More than once. His life was in danger. He had to get to cover. 

Sherlock scuttled into a crevice, huddling in the darkened area with the crawling things and the damp and trembled as shock began to set in. He was cold, possibly approaching hypothermic, having sweated through his clothing in the chill of the frozen air. He had no idea where he was, though the terrain suggested Switzerland.

_ Think! Think! _

Sherlock heard footsteps on the ledge above him, a good thirty feet up. Had he fallen from there? He couldn’t recall. Had he been alone? With John? Was John lying on the rocks below?

Sherlock swallowed a sob, shivered, shuddered, closed his eyes against the absolute _fear_ of a life without John Watson, and tried to think rationally. He was in Switzerland. Definitely. Roar of water… Reichenbach Falls. Moriarty. Richard Brook. Reichenbach. Reichen Bach. Moriarty brought him here to kill him? Weren’t they trying to avoid that? Why were they in Switzerland at the very place he was trying not to go? Moran. Right. Where was Moriarty now? Where was _John_? 

Sherlock searched in his pockets but all he found was a plastic bag with an envelope inside. Confused, he opened it and tugged the contents out: two pictures. In one, clearly during the press conference when he discovered the _Falls of Reichenbach_ painting, Sherlock is looking at John with a curiously sentimental look on his face while John clearly is griping at him. Had he truly been that fond of him back then? It seemed unreal now. In the second photo John was walking out of a warehouse… the one where The Woman was revealed to them both to be alive. His face was pinched as if in pain, the unmistakable lines of longing creasing his brow; he had no doubt whom it was for. 

_ Oh, John… _

There was more scrabbling up above him, someone pacing back and forth, and he practically held his breath to avoid being seen. The sun was setting. It was going to get _much_ colder soon. He wouldn’t survive for long.

“John!” A strange voice called out. 

[ CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE ](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/18016.html)


	21. vincentmeoblinn | The Fall of John H. Watson Ch 21

Sherlock was so busy being in pain and cold that he didn’t notice the sickness in his stomach for several minutes. By then he could hear John telling the stranger and Lestrade that Sherlock and Moriarty had gone over the cliff ledge. He now had a conundrum. Moriarty’s people were still out there and likely to pose a threat, at the very least in order to gain revenge. If he fled now then he could watch over his loved ones from a distance while quietly taking out his enemies. Unfortunately, he was injured and likely poisoned, his only sponsor subjected to scandal, and the man he couldn’t function without- regardless of his brain damage- was up on a cliff sobbing brokenly into a strangers arms. There was simply nothing for it. He had to call out.

“John!” 

“Sh-Sherlock?!”

“Down here! G-get an am-ambulance! P-poison!”

“Sherlock! Bloody hell, I can’t see you!”

Sherlock struggled to climb out of his hiding place, but there was a growing numbness in his limbs. How long before the poison in the envelope killed him? Sherlock tried to cry out again, but found his tongue had grown quite numb. He managed only a strangled cry. There was a scuffling sound from above and then John dropped down in front of him, landing hard and slipping on the moisture. For a horrifying moment Sherlock thought he was going to helplessly watch John fall to his death, but the man scrabbled, found purchase, and crawled towards him with a flushed and joyous face.

“Sherlock…” John pressed their lips together briefly before beginning to inspect him for injury, “You’ve likely got broken ribs. Shoulder’s dislocated. What about your back? Pain? Numbness?”

Sherlock couldn’t answer. He was becoming numb, all right, but it was the poison from the envelope. His eyes glanced towards it unconsciously and then immediately his heart pounded in agony as John followed his eyes and reached towards it. Sherlock let out a strangled cry again and tried to move his hand to knock the pictures and poisoned envelope aside, but only just managed a feeble twitch. It was enough, John’s eyes shot up to his, saw the warning there, and he pulled gloves from his pocket to secure the envelope and pictures inside the plastic bag again. 

“The hospital will need to know what you were dosed with,” John explained needlessly. 

Sherlock’s heart was pounding painfully in his chest, making a rushing sound flood his ears over the sound of the horridly loud waterfall. Everything hurt, even his eyes and fingernails, and he moaned and whimpered shamelessly as John gently caressed his cheek.

“Soon, love, soon. This will all be over soon. I’m going to get you home and bundle you up in front of the fireplace. I’ll bring you tea or hot cocoa or coffee or anything you want. I have a stash of chocolate digestives I’ve been hiding from you. I’ll bring those out and we’ll finish off the package. Then you’ll have a smoke and I won’t give you a single nasty look.”

Sherlock’s eyes slid closed to the soothing words from John’s lips, ignoring the roar of the helicopter as his memory cycled again, playing John’s words over the rattle of the stretcher being lowered and raised. He spent a very long time in darkness, interspersed with pain and some moments where he heard John’s voice. 

Time dragged and flowed and bounced down the rocks like a waterfall. Eventually Sherlock opened his eyes to find Molly sitting serenely by his bedside reading a book while biting her nails. He attempted to speak, but his mouth was so dry he wasn’t even certain it qualified as a mouth anymore. 

“Oh! Sherlock! Here!” Molly scrambled with a plastic cup, filled it with water and (infuriatingly!) dipped a sponge on a stick into it. She swabbed his mouth with the lightly minted bit of moisture and he felt somewhat human again.

“Don’t try to talk, let me get the doctor.”

“John?” Sherlock croaked out, but it came out more like ‘dawn’.

“Oh… ah… the doctor. Let me get the doctor.”

The doctors took hours to poke and prod at him and tell him what a near miss he’d had with death. They regaled him with tales of saving his extremities from amputation, failed treatments, blood transfusions, and a mysterious assassination attempt that finally got the local authorities to move him to a more secure location (back in England, judging by the language and Molly’s presence) and take Lestrade’s warnings more seriously. Sherlock lost his temper at that, found a voice (it wasn’t _his_ voice, it was too reedy and broken for that) and told them what he _really_ thought of them. One left in tears while the rest gaped in shock.

“Wew isss dawn…” Sherlock croaked, by which he meant ‘where is John’. Really it was a miracle they even understood his insults. 

“Prison,” Molly stated softly.

[ CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO ](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/18243.html)


	22. vincentmeoblinn | The Fall of John H. Watson Ch 22

"The martyr cannot be dishonored. Every lash inflicted is a tongue of fame; every prison a more illustrious abode."Ralph Waldo Emerson

John smiled as he sat down across from Sherlock, his eyes at peace despite the injustice of it all.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, “Once again you’re shouldering the burden that should have been mine.”

John shook his head, his smile never faltering, “It’s not a burden.”

“You’re in _prison_ _for life_.”

“It’s okay.”

“This is NOT OKAY John!” Sherlock shouted, slamming his hand down on the table. 

John didn’t so much as blink, his smile still in place, but the guard at the doorway put his hand on his billystick in obvious threat. Sherlock held up a hand to forestall him and took a moment to compose himself.

“ _You’re_ not okay,” John observed, “Have you eaten?”

“Yes, yes, Mycroft is coddling me in the most maddening way,” Sherlock sulked, “Thank you for clearing his name, by the way. As infuriating as he is, he wouldn’t have survived in prison and I’d hate to have been responsible for my brother’s rape and subsequent suicide.”

“Welcome, I suppose.”

“I’m working on your defense,” Sherlock stated softly.

“You don’t have to.”

“I do.” 

“You really don’t. I’m fine, Sherlock, I survived in here once and I can do it again.”

“It’s _me_ who can’t survive without _you_ ,” Sherlock hissed, looking away in shame at his confession. 

“Sure you can. Molly’s written me. You’ve gone three days straight already without relapsing, your memory’s improving by leaps and bounds. You’ll be normal again in no time.” 

“I don’t mean like that.”

“I know what you meant,” John replied, his smile gone.

They stared at each other for several minutes, the aching pain of formality and prison regulations keeping them from so much as holding hands. The gulf between them was as big as the falls of Reichenbach, despite the mere centimeters physically separating their hands on the dirty table.

“Why?” Sherlock asked.

“Why what?”

“Why did you do it, John? I’ve tried to see you as innocent, but once again I can’t. I don’t think I’m wrong this time, especially since your defense when you pled ‘not guilty’ was that you were saving lives by killing all those men.”

“They were Moriarty’s networks. One of them had already tried to kill you. If that nurse hadn’t stepped in the path of the bullet you’d have died in a hospital bed right in front of me.”

“I know, but _why_ go to such public lengths to destroy them?”

“I don’t have your brilliance, Sherlock, or Moriarty’s. I’m just a soldier. I did what I was trained to do. I found them and gunned them down. Add to that the fact that my being so bloody obvious about hunting them down distracted them from targeting _you_.”

“You… John…” Sherlock closed his eyes, steeling himself, “Why didn’t you wait for me?”

“They told me you’d never wake up.”

“They were _wrong_.”

“I don’t regret it Sherlock.”

“Do you regret not being able to touch me again?” Sherlock asked, needing to know that his memories were _real_ and that John did still want him in some way.

“Oh, gods, yes,” John breathed softly, his eyes misting over a bit. 

Their hands moved those few centimeters, their fingertips touching just a fraction and…

“No touching!” The guard snapped.

Their hands jerked back as though burnt. 

“I _will_ get you out of here,” Sherlock whispered, “By _any_ means necessary.”

“Don’t you dare,” John whispered back, “Don’t you dare waste what I fought _so hard_ to give you, Sherlock. You’re more important than I am. I’m just a wounded soldier, you’re a _hero_.”

“I’m not the hero, John, but I won’t call you one. Hero doesn’t fit. Martyr does. _My_ martyr,” Sherlock replied, his tone bordering on angry.

“Always yours.”

Sherlock stood before he made a fool of himself again, perhaps by bawling like a child who has had his lovey stolen. He left without saying goodbye. There was no reason to say goodbye because there was no chance in hell John was staying in prison.

http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/18647.html


	23. vincentmeoblinn | The Fall of John H. Watson Ch 23

In the end it was Moriarty who inadvertently led to John’s release. Sherlock spent weeks trying to crack the code that he had used to alter records and frame Mycroft. John had been the one to locate that code, hidden in the safe of one of his kills, which he had cracked purely for the fun of it and to honor Sherlock who would have done so the second he laid eyes on it. Turning it in was what had caused him to be captured since he also had to turn _himself_ in and testify as to how he had found the code and why he had been there. In return for isolating such a powerful weapon and turning it in he was given several consolations in prison, namely they kept him off the homicide ward, gave him a private cell, and allowed him more freedom than those with life sentences usually got. 

Once Sherlock cracked the code he wrote a counter code and sold it to the British government in return for John’s release. The government was only too willing to pay up, especially with Mycroft- freshly returned to his proper status- backing up his release. The press were pumped full of hype regarding John Watson, who was dragged out of prison and hailed as a hero.

“Dr. Watson! Dr. Watson! Did you know you would be released when you first turned yourself in a year ago?”

“No, that was a bit of a surprise. I mean I always knew what I was doing was necessary, but I didn’t expect it to be acknowledged since my government sanction didn’t cover publicity.”

That was their cover story. Government sanctioned kills that were _not_ supposed to be made public; John was touted as an assassin turned martyr rather than a soldier turned vigilante. The public had a field day with the newly disgraced deceased men’s lives now on parade to the paparazzi. Sherlock stood smiling by his side the entire time, his hand firmly on the small of John’s muscled back.

They couldn’t get their clothes off fast enough. They started the second the door to the building was shut, tugging at each other’s coats while sloppily devouring each other’s mouths as they climbed the stairs in clumsy tandem. Mrs. Hudson came bustling out mentioning a welcome home cake only to shriek in surprise when Sherlock’s shirt rained buttons down on her.

“My goodness… you two just… let me know when you’re through catching up.”

By the time they got into 221B they were down to their pants and socks and John had already sucked two passion marks into Sherlock’s neck. Once inside he picked the man up and threw him over his shoulder to carry him the rest of the way into the bedroom. He received a firm squeeze to each buttock for his efforts and a sloppy kiss/lick to the small of his back, and hummed his approval. John threw Sherlock down onto the bed, tugged off his pants, and swallowed his cock down as though starved for it. Sherlock shouted and tugged at his hair lest he finish too soon, but John growled and kept on sucking even as Sherlock pressed lube into his hand. He stroked the man’s hole firmly with one finger and then sank it into him with ease.

“Mmm, someone’s been thinking of me,” John growled as he popped off to watch his finger slide in and out.

“If by ‘thinking of you’ you mean fucking myself with a toy while screaming your name, then yes,” Sherlock panted.

“I’m going to need to see that later.”

“Gods!”

“Nope, just me, but I’ll have you seeing the heavens soon,” John promised.

“Only interested in one heavenly body, thank you,” Sherlock panted.

John’s response was to swallow his cock down again and switch over to two fingers. Sherlock was fucking himself on them with enthusiasm when John found his prostate and brought the man off with a sharp cry of surprise. John swallowed his spunk down and added a third finger to Sherlock’s twitching hole as the man went boneless on the bed.

“Going to fuck you so hard, Sherlock,” John growled as he licked up the few drops of come that had escaped his greedy mouth.

“Joooohn,” Sherlock groaned, gripping his thighs and hauling his legs up in a wanton display.

John’s cock throbbed painfully so he pushed his pants down so he could squeeze it to relieve some of the ache. He tried spreading his fingers and found Sherlock open and slick for him. John kicked his pants off and tugged Sherlock to the edge of the bed where he kneeled over him eagerly. He hadn’t had anal in years and he was close to coming just from the thought. He tugged on his bollocks to buy himself some time and then slicked up his cock and pressed inside slowly.

Sherlock groaned through his entire entry, one long, drawn out throaty exclamation of relief. He held himself still a moment, more for his benefit than Sherlock’s, and when he pressed back inside again he angled to hit Sherlock’s prostate with a smooth nudge and glide. The man gasped and writhed beneath him, forcing John to hold the squirming man’s hips quite firmly.

“I bet you bruise easily, Sherlock, all that pale skin. Do you think you’ll have my finger prints on your hips when this is done?”

“Yes!” Sherlock cried out, though John didn’t think he was actually answering him.

“Such a pretty arse, Sherlock. All mine, aren’t you?”

“Yes! Yes! Faster! Harder!” Sherlock demanded, giving him an impatient look.

John smirked, took note of the man’s rising cock, and began to fuck him in earnest.

“Touch yourself, bring yourself off again,” John panted, holding himself at bay by force of will. He _needed_ to feel Sherlock coming around his cock, that tight clench of muscles and the pull of a greedy hole sucking him in.

“I… can’t…” Sherlock gasped, though he grasped his cock and tugged at it with enough enthusiasm to make John’s bits draw up in excitement.

“You will, Sherlock. You’re going to come all over yourself, screaming my name. Which will you use, eh? You wanted to be one of my Wenches once. Will you call me Watson? Captain? Doctor? John?”

“I… What… what do you…pref-?”

“Stop thinking,” John ordered, giving his hips a particularly hard snap to go with his tone.

“Yes, sir!” Sherlock gasped, moaning in bliss, “I want a tattoo.”

“Fuck, yeah, my name on your arse.”

“Mnm, on my chest… buttons… loose…”

“I’m close, Sher…”

“Jooohn,” Sherlock groaned, and added his other hand to the mix to stroke his bollocks and press against his taint.

“Mmn, I’m going to lick you down there when this is done, eat you all up Sherlock.”

“Gods!” Sherlock cried out, then quickly corrected himself, “JOHN!”

John gasped as Sherlock’s muscles clenched around him, devouring his cock as Sherlock’s cock spit out what little it had left. John groaned through the man’s drawn-out second orgasm and then pulled out, tugged twice, and spilled himself across Sherlock’s genitals. He dropped the man’s hips down onto the bed, sank to his knees, and moaned greedily as he licked up every stripe of come from Sherlock’s spent and sensitive cock, slowly dropping bollocks, and salty taint. Once he was done he stroked a finger around the man’s gaping entrance just to make sure he remembered whom it belonged to before letting Sherlock drop into exhausted sleep.

“Mine,” John growled.


End file.
